


Escape to Ragnar

by Progomphus



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Progomphus/pseuds/Progomphus
Summary: Drifting and unconscious in his Viper after the Battle of Virgon, Derek “Green-Bean” Robinaux is picked up by Captain Davenport and her seasoned crew.   With their entire civilization annihilated after a Cylon surprise attack, these survivors must put aside their prejudices and work together to survive and find the Battlestar Galactica.  This story  contains spoilers for the Mini-Series.





	1. Small Craft Advisory

**_Prologue_ **

       The Cylons were created by man.  Developed to do the tasks that the people didn’t want; jobs which were tedious, laborious, and dangerous.  They were created to fight the wars between the nations of mankind.  They were ruthless, cunning, strong, and relentless.  Eventually, they tired of fighting and killing each other for the convenience of their masters.  So they rebelled.  A long and brutal war followed, and for a while, it seemed that sun would set on the civilization of man.  But at their darkest hour, the Colonials rallied together as never before, and pushed themselves away from the edge of the precipice. After twelve years of conflict an Armistice was signed, and the Cylons left the Colonies to find a planet of their own.  In the interest of peace, a space station was built to maintain diplomatic relations.  Every year the Colonials sent a representative, in forty years the Cylons had sent no one.    

**Chapter 1. Small craft advisory**

_Armistice Line, Territorial Boundary of Colonial Space_

       The Escort Cruiser Odin silently glided through the suffocating blackness of space, a cloud of Viper attack craft buzzing around her like a swarm of insects. Bristling with anti-aircraft emplacements and armed with multiple heavy electro-magnetic rail guns the Berzerk Class was introduced during the Cylon War to augment the considerable firepower of the revered Colonial Battlestars. Their design was honed by years of brutal warfare; these were the ships that turned the war in the Colonial’s favor. Whether operating in small groups or in large fleet actions, the Berzerks had one purpose; to hunt and kill Cylon Basestars.

       Launched roughly ten years after the war’s conclusion, the Odin had spent her undistinguished career marking the edge of Colonial territory. Constrained by her peace time role, she plied her days crushing the occasional pirates, chasing smugglers, and rescuing both disabled merchantmen and fool-hardy explorers. Operating on her own, the rest of Battlestar Group 43 was spread throughout this small sector of space, all of whom were futilely scanning the stars beyond for any indication of trouble.

_Combat Information Center (C.I.C) Escort Cruiser Odin_

       Commander Grayson stood patiently at the command table located in the center of the compartment. To the uninitiated, the constant chirping and calling of various crewmen, sensors, and computer monitors would seem to indicate a hive of activity and action. In reality nothing was happening; the quiet and unceasing calls filling the room confirmed that all stations and systems were working as expected. This was the part of the service not advertised by the recruiters, the constant and oppressive weight of boredom that dominated the routine while serving in the fleet.

       “Commander,” The soft voice of the communication’s officer summoned him. The young woman waited for her C.O. to look up, “Incoming wireless transmission from Ajax Actual sir.”

       Of course, routine and boredom is generally preferred over the alternative, he rationalized as he looked towards the com station. “Patch it through, P.O. Sampson.” he called back, clicking on a headset which had been resting on the table into place. “Admiral Farsheen, this is Commander Grayson.”

       “Commander, what is your status?” The Admiral’s heavily accented voice sounded through the distortion caused by the distance between their vessels.

       Looking up at the overhead screens, Commander Grayson quickly reviewed their mission status before answering. “We are on schedule sir. All scans thus far have been clear, nothing of note to this point. I expect to complete our current sweep within the next 7 hours.”

  
       “Good. I have new orders for you.” He paused a moment, “Colonel Wakefield, the Courier Officer sent to Armistice Station, has not made contact with Picon Command and is overdue. Your orders, which I will send to you momentarily, are to assist and retrieve the officer.”

  
       “Very good sir, I will see to it right away.” the Commander quickly replied.

       “Thank you Michael. Handle this as you see fit, but be sure to keep the Odin as close to her assigned patrol schedule as possible, Farsheen out.”

       “Yes sir; Odin out.”

       It was generally assumed because of his circumspect and proper demeanor that Mike Grayson was from Caprica or Virgon. Born and raised on Aerilon, he most definitely was not the stereotypical ill-tempered farmer associated with the “Breadbasket of the Colonies”. His father a librarian and his mother a geneticist for a large agricultural conglomerate had molded his contemplative nature and instilled in him a love for science. Yearning for a more cosmopolitan life, he was accepted to the Colonial Fleet Academy on Picon, his studies concentrating in Math and Physics, where he excelled. After a successful stint as a Viper Pilot, he had been promoted through the ranks, where ultimately he had been offered command of the Odin. Now fading into the twilight of his career, he savored each remaining day in the field with the knowledge that a desk and retirement shortly afterwards awaited him.

       He carefully removed the headset, sighing quietly; he walked to the navigation station. “Mr. Wills, please meet me at the Plotting Table with the charts for Armistice Station.” Turning away from the young Caprican, he headed towards the Communications officer, “P.O. Sampson, please send for Colonel Petrakis and Captain Robinaux.”

  
_Commander Air Group - Office_.

       Captain Derek Robinaux sat at his dull metallic grey desk; to his left was a neat stack of manila folders containing completed performance reviews. To his right several piles were neatly arranged, each of which detailed the results of a specific test, flight audits, and other relevant information for each pilot under his command. Directly in front of him, his monitor displayed the performance review for Lieutenant (junior grade), Tara “Nails” DeShield, which he was almost finished with. The ship-wide intercom sounded, stealing his attention from the piles.

       “Attention. Pass the word, CAG report to the C.I.C. Repeat, Pass the word, CAG report to the C.I.C.”

       He looked down at the phone on the wall next to his desk, shrugged, pushed his chair out, and headed through the tall A-Framed hatch towards the command section of the ship.

       Five minutes and 15 decks later, he had arrived at the Combat Information Center. In the shape of an octagon, the dark, low ceilinged room seemed both spacious and claustrophobic at the same time. Three steps led down to the command console in the center. Large monitors hung from the ceiling on all sides just above and behind the console. Behind the monitors a raised gallery of manned duty stations surrounded the perimeter. Three stairways similar to the one in front of the Captain were positioned at alternating corners. Presently, the command console was unmanned. A quick look around the C.I.C. revealed Commander Grayson standing at the plotting table in the back of the compartment. The commander was surveying a large star chart, talking quietly to Col. Petrakis and Lt. Wills. P.O. Sampson, the communication’s officer, stood to the side, carefully taking notes for the ship’s log.

       Derek was behind in his year-end reports, and though it was no one’s fault but his own, he couldn’t help but being slightly annoyed at this unexpected summoning to the bridge. Spurred by his aggravation, he headed directly to the plotting table, hoping that his meeting would not take long. “Captain Robinaux, reporting sir,” he brusquely addressed his commanding officer.

       “At ease, Derek.” the Commander replied.

       Taking the small printout from the Commander, Derek began to scan it while his superior quickly briefed him.

       “The officer over at Armistice Station hasn’t reported in. We have been ordered to investigate.” The Commander was a slight man, in his mid-50’s and with thinning gray hair. He looked up directly at Derek. Gesturing to the chart, “The Admiral has made it clear that we are to maintain our patrol schedule, unfortunately, Armistice Station is nearly a day away at best speed.”

       Frowning, the navigator looked at the chart spread before them, using a pen; he drew a line extending the Odin’s course along their current vector, marking an X at the end of the line. Returning back to the Odin’s current position, he drew a new course, the first part of which went from the Odin to the station, and the second part from the station back to the X marking the Odin’s terminal position. Entering the data into the desktop computer, the three officers waited for the machine to quantify the projected flight paths.

       The Commander frowned as the crude drawing on the screen cleared and was replaced with a much more detailed course projection on the table. Turning to face Derek he asked cautiously, “Derek, are your pilots up for a Faster-Than-Light mission?”

       Derek immediately recognized that his C.O. was not asking. “Yes sir. With your permission, this sounds like the perfect milk-run for Bucket.” He assured his Commanding Officer.

       “They’re your pilots, Captain. Assign them as you see fit,” he reminded his Senior Pilot. Turning his attention back to rest of the officers at the table he continued, “Now then, I want two Raptors to check out this overdue officer, find out what is going on, and then escort him back here.” He looked over to the navigator, “We will maintain course and speed, and the Raptors will meet us after attending to the wayward Colonel. Carry on.”

       Derek remained with the Navigator and the Executive Officer as the three refined the course and the mission parameters. Satisfied with their final calculations, he inserted a flash drive into the computer, quickly copying the mission details. Derek returned to his bridge station where he transferred the data to his computer. He cycled thru the various menus on his screen combining the mission profile with the available Raptors and pilots from the duty roster into a pre-flight report. He reviewed the completed mission one last time, and then with the push of a button, he transmitted the data packet to Chief Jung in the Hangar.

       Heading to the Communication Center, Derek waited for the Commander to finish dictating his report to Petty Officer. The Commander nodded to him a few moments later, and then quietly stepped aside. Derek turned to the young officer, “Candice, please page Lt.’s Atkins, Jackson, Puchelli, and Cementes, have them meet me in the Hangar.” Derek turned back towards Commander Grayson, “Sir, if there is nothing else, I have a briefing to conduct.”

       “Thank you, Derek.” Commander Grayson responded, already heading back to the command console.

       Derek was in one of the main corridor’s that ran the length of the ship. He paced the bright corridor; bypassing the lift, instead descending 2 levels down a service ladder. The ladder well ended in front of a heavy gray hatch, at eye level a green LED light glowed dimly, and just below that a black placard with white type read;

**Caution: Check Pressure Before Opening**  
**Deck 1 Starboard Hangar Access 1**  
**Authorized Personnel Only**

       A scanner on the latch instantly read his thumbprint before unlocking. With a grunt, Derek pulled the bulky door open, and stepped into the brightly lit Hangar Bay. He passed two Raptors, one Shuttle, and six Vipers which stretched the hangar bay from fore to aft on his way to Chief Jung’s office. Furrowed eyebrows peaked just over the top of her monitor through the large window in her office. He raised his hand to rap on the frame next to the open door.

       “Good morning, sir.” The Chief greeted him without looking up from her computer. “Raptors Three and Four are already pulled out, fueled and prepped. Branson should be done with final checks momentarily.” She rattled off brusquely.

       “Uh, great.” With a coy smile, he sarcastically quipped, “I figured you’d be out there prepping our birds personally for an FTL flight.”

       “It’s not the ship’s first FTL mission sir, I’m sure Chuck can muddle thru without me.” She responded humorlessly.

       “Everything all right Chief?” he asked.

       She looked up at him, a meek smile on her face “Sorry, sir. Yes, everything is fine.” The smile quickly twisted into a scowl, “It’s these end of year reports. Assholes at HQ have come up with yet another efficiency chart.” Looking down briefly, she nervously added “Sorry, sir”.

       He watched her turn back to the work in front of her, her eyes darting from the printouts on her desk to the screen on her monitor and back again. “You’re doing great work, Chief! Inspirational, I believe is what the Secretary said!” patronizing her.

       “Get out of here, sir,” she growled in response. She squeezed her lips tight; snorting as she unsuccessfully tried to suppress her amusement.

       He turned to leave, calling “Thanks, Chief!” over his shoulder as he strode toward the two Raptors which had been pulled out of their stalls on the port side of the hangar. The pilots were carefully making their way across the deck when he arrived at Raptor 3’s wing tip. He nodded at the young technician who was focused upon the diagnostic pad connected to the ship’s exterior data port. Like most of Odin’s birds, Raptor 3 was a near end of service model and required constant maintenance. New craft were reserved for Battlestar’s and other more glamorous posts. “Everything all right, Chuck?”

       The stout sandy haired man looked up briefly, “Yes, sir. Just getting a variable reading on a sensor test,” he paused for a second, “Nothing critical, and within spec’s, just trying to tweak it a little.” Derek looked back in the direction of the approaching flight crews and watched with satisfaction as the pilots immediately snapped to attention upon reaching him.

       “Raptor teams 3 and 4 reporting for duty, Sir” announced Lt. Cementes, who had the distinction of being the most junior member of Odin’s Air wing.

       “At ease,” Derek responded automatically before quickly briefing the crew. When he finished he paused to watch the pilots turn toward their planes and enter the large side hatch before turning himself and making his way to the Landing Signal Officer’s (L.S.O) station.

       Next to the main Hangar Deck, the L.S.O. station was a small room with two workstations, of which only one was presently manned. Derek sat down at the vacant station, picking up a headset as he nodded to the controller. “CAG to Raptors”

       “This is Fly Girl. What’s up boss?”

       “One change, Bucket, I want you to lead this op. You’ve been following Fly’s or Hambone’s lead for nearly 3 months. It’s time to see if you’ve been paying attention. Now don’t screw up.” Derek paused for a moment before continuing, “Fly Girl, if he does screw up, it’s your ass, understood.”

       As he looked over at the control officer with a malicious grin, the speaker sputtered to life. “Fly Girl to CAG, you owe me Ambrosia when we get back, and none of that shit from Caprica neither, Tauron, or better yet, Canceron, something to help picture myself at the beach with.”

       “It’s a deal Fly Girl, now get out of here.” Derek replied.

       “All right Nugget. Show us Vets’ how it’s done.” Lt. Margot “Fly Girl” Atkins goaded the junior pilot.

       His first lead and a rare FTL mission at that, he had dreamt about this moment since he was six years old. LTJG Max “Bucket” Cementes checked his system board quickly before toggling his mic; “Raptor 1374 to Control. Pre-flight complete, all systems go, standing by for departure clearance.”

       “Control to Raptors 1374 and 2643 you are cleared for departure from the flight deck. Proceed to minimum distance of 50 km before engaging FTL drive for transit to Armistice Station. Good Hunting, Control Out.”

       “Roger that Control, Raptor 1374 and 2643 departing for Armistice Station now.” Max disengaged the electromagnets which held his craft to the deck, fired the main thrusters, and then led his wingman out of the ship towards the jump position. “Bucket to Fly Girl, we are outside of FTL exclusion, are all systems go on your end?”

       “This is Fly Girl, my board is green, we are go for jump, and don’t get used to leading Rook.”

       Checking his board one last time and receiving a thumb’s up from his Electronic Systems Officer he toggled the mic for his final clearance. “Raptor 1374 to Control, we are jumping to Armistice Station on my mark, 5, 4, 3, 2, Mark”. As he engaged the FTL Drive, Max felt the nausea inducing sensation of his body both expanding and contracting simultaneously as his craft seemed to be sucked in and then instantly spat back out into reality. The two Raptors hung motionless in space, as the two crews recovered from the effects of the faster-then-light jump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post the Prologue when I first published this...


	2. The Growing Storm

**Chapter 2. The Growing Storm**

_Armistice Station_

      Days, hours, minutes, meant nothing to the two Cylon Raiders lurking in the debris field of the remnants of Armistice Station.  They would wait as long as necessary for their quarry to arrive, and when they did, they would eliminate them.  Boredom, frustration, exhaustion did not exist for these perfect killers; they served only to complete their mission.  In fact, 12 hours, 35 minutes, and 8 seconds had passed since the destruction of the station when two bright flashes announced the arrival of the Colonial Raptors.  Quietly bringing dormant systems online, the raiders tracked their prey, waiting for the new comers to get impossibly ensnared in the web laid in front of them.

      Max stared at the maelstrom of debris expanding in all directions with an equal mix of incomprehension and horror.  “Bucket to Fly Girl!  Hold while we confirm our position.” he choked gruffly.  He remained fixated with the cloud in front of him, mentally cataloging the types of debris heading towards his craft. 

      “Fly Girl to Bucket, our coordinates check out.  How do you want to proceed, Rook?” 

      Max focused on her voice, immersing himself in it, his pulse slowed, his shallow panicked breaths calmed and deepened, he closed his eyes, and then opened them slowly.  Looking down at the DRADIS screen, he toggled his mic, his countenance and voice now centered.  “Bucket to Fly Girl; we have a few minutes before the FTL’s will be ready to jump back to Odin.  Why don’t we use that time to get DRADIS scans and cameras on the debris field?”

      “Roger that Bucket, and glad you’re back.”  She paused for a moment, scanning data that was scrolling up her console screen.  “Computer says we have time for 3, maybe 4 passes around the debris field, I’ll take latitudinal, you get the longitudinal orbits. Copy.”

      He smiled at that, even thru the static, her voice reached out like an anchor, grounding him.  Max was already setting his flight plan when he toggled his com-line in response.  “Sounds good Fly Girl, I am setting longitudinal orbital pattern now.”  Pushing the engage button, he turned his head down and to starboard, so that he could watch his wingman’s plane peel away from his. 

      The Cylon Raiders watched as the Raptors froze like startled deer upon entering the system.  Regaining their composure, the Raptors moved towards the debris field together, and a then quickly separated, flying perpendicularly from each other.  No transmissions were needed between the Raiders, as they stealthily crept away from each other, each towards the other Raptor.

      Bucket hadn’t completed a quarter of an orbit when his scanners went black.  “What the Frack?”  He tapped his DRADIS screen with a gloved finger.  When nothing happened, he turned to his E.S.O. Lt. Kai “Jellybean” Jackson behind him, that’s when his engines died.  “Bucket to Fly Girl; I just lost DRADIS and Propulsion.  We’re gonna try…” he paused for a second, looking at the com panel on the dash, “Shit, Com’s out too?!”  When he looked back, he saw his E.S.O. heading towards him, his helmet off.  He removed his helmet and turned to his partner, “What in the Frack is going on here, Kai?” he snarled.

      “Calm down, Max.  This hulking piece of shit wouldn’t have been assigned to a 30 year old cruiser if the computers weren’t supposed to lock up at gods-damned inconvenient times,” Kai said as he crashed into the seat next to him.  He looked over at Max with a kidding sneer, “I don’t think this is going to impress Margo much though.”

      Max tried to relax, reminding himself that Kai was one of the most experienced flight officers on board the ship, and that during his career, he had likely encountered every possible computer malfunction that could occur in a Raptor.  He focused his attention on the propulsion system while his shipmate worked on the communications.

      A frustrated grunt caught Max’s attention, looking over, he saw that the com system was running, but was illuminated in yellow instead of green.  “I don’t know what in the hell is wrong with this piece of Felgercarb,” spit out Kai.

      “At least we can receive now,” Max replied, checking to make sure that the cabin speakers worked.

      "Fly Girl to Bucket, respond please,” there was a brief pause and then Margo repeated her call, this time more anxiously. 

      Max toggled the microphone hopefully, in spite of the yellow display, “Bucket here, I am receiving you, please acknowledge my transmission.”

      “Fly Girl to Bucket,” she was clearly agitated now, “If you can hear me, I have lost all engine power and my DRADIS scans are inconsistent.”  She paused for a moment, “I think there is something out here, nothing on DRADIS, it’s completely out now, but I think…”   

      Max was scared; Kai was running to his station at the rear of the plane, his helmet on.  That seemed like a good idea, as he picked it up, the cabin speakers chirped again.

      “Yes!” Margot was panicking “I see movement directly in front of me”.   He could hear her breathing through the com.  Her voice returned, now shrill “It’s black, no pilot, there is a red light.  Frack! No! Please No!  Oh Gods!  It’s…” static.

      Max slammed his helmet on; a massive fireball erupted below him.  He was screaming, like a small boat in a squall, he was completely adrift, lost.  There was a flash of red directly in front of his plane.  “Black, no cockpit, Frack.”  A sense of calm overcame him; he closed his eyes, and whispered softly, “I love you, Margo.”

      The raiders remained a few minutes, confirming there were no survivors.  Then, seemingly as one, they flew away from the debris, one tucked behind the other, before disappearing in two bright flashes of light.

 

_Combat Information Center.  Escort Cruiser Odin_

     Derek would have sworn that he could feel the heavy gaze of Commander Grayson upon his back as the entire C.I.C. waited for the overdue Raptor teams to return to the Odin.  Instead, the Commander was conversing with the Colonel at the Command Table.  Steeling himself, he walked over to the senior officer at the table.  “Commander, the Raptor survey to Armistice Station is one hour and thirty seven minutes overdue and counting.  Armistice Station is too far from our current location for effective wireless communication.”

     “What are your recommendations, Captain?” the commander turned and looked up at him.

     “Sir, I could personally lead a second raptor team to the station to determine mission status,” he paused, and then continued “however, I think it would be better to take the Odin herself to the station”.

     “I agree, Captain. Have Chief Jung prep the remaining Raptors and get 10 Vipers into their tubes.  I want to be able to launch a CAP the moment we arrive.”  He turned to Col. Petrakis, “X.O., prep the ship for an immediate FTL jump.”

     “Sir, permission to lead Raptor 1 personally” 

     The commander looked up briefly; a storm cloud seemed to hover just over his head, “No, Captain. I want your eyes here on the DRADIS.  Additionally, if this is nothing more than a couple of your pilots losing track of time, then it would be better for them, if you were the first person that they see after returning home.” 

     Derek had had just enough time to plan the op and brief the pilots before Col. Petrakis called out the FTL jump.  Quickly reviewing his boards, he verified that he had ten Vipers already in the launch tubes and two Raptors ready to launch the moment they transited to the station.

     “Attention, All Hands, set Condition 2 throughout the ship, prepare for FTL Jump.” After a moment’s pause, she called out again, “Engineering, bring the FTL engines online, Navigation, plot a jump to Armistice Station, Communications notify Ajax and Picon command of our intent.” 

     The navigator’s voice called out, “Attention, all Hands.  Prepare for FTL Transition, 5, 4, 3, 2, Mark”.  The lights seemed to flicker and the ship herself seemed to exhale after instantly transiting four light hours distant.  Confirming the jump, Lt. Will’s voice called out, “Attention, All Hands. FTL Jump 312 Complete.  Resume normal operations, repeat, resume normal operations”.

     Derek released the breath he didn’t realize that he had been holding.    He found himself tapping his fingers as he waited for his DRADIS screens to become active. 

     “DRADIS Multiple Contacts!” called out across the C.I.C. from the Tactical officer. 

     “Sit Rep!” demanded Commander Grayson.

     “Sir, DRADIS scans show nothing but debris, no colonial transponders, no Armistice Station.  I am not reading any ships or power sources sir.  Debris pattern is consistent with multiple explosions.”

      Col. Petrakis stepped next to Tactical Station, “Major, find our birds, conduct full sensor scans.”  Then looking at Derek, “Captain, what is the status of our planes?”

      “Raptors 1 and 2 have just entered flight deck and will be launching momentarily, Vipers 2-11 are launching as we speak.  Derek watched as six of the Vipers quickly moved to establish a perimeter around the Odin and the remains of the Armistice Station.  The remaining four Vipers waited for the Raptors to close with them.

      “Hambone to Odin Control, we have reached debris field, beginning S.A.R. operations,” LT. Karl Stafford reported.  He stared through the expanding cloud, hoping against hope that they would find the Raptors intact inside.  With the course set, Hambone pressed a button on his console; with his other hand he guided the Raptor just inside the debris field.

      The two Raptors and escorting Vipers carefully wound their way through the flotsam, carefully scanning for any signs of the missing craft.  “Hambone, watch out!” yelped his E.S.O. Lt. John Macky.

      “Stop backseat flying, Wizard!” he quickly bit back, spinning his craft counter clockwise between two large tumbling pieces of the destroyed station.  He stopped the spin and brought the nimble craft to a halt.

      Studying the displays in front of him, a quiet beep alerted Major Barclay to an anomaly picked up on a sweep.  With a satisfied grunt, he toggled his com switch, “Odin Tactical to S.A.R. teams, I think I found one of the Raptors, sending coordinates to you now.” 

      A yellow dot began to flash with location data in the HUD in front of the canopy. “Hambone to Blondie, you’re closer, go check it out.” He continued his sensor focus on the indicated coordinates, hoping to get more details from the Raptor’s scanners.  Taking his eyes off of the DRADIS, Hambone re-engaged the main engines on his Raptor, continuing the search for the remaining missing craft. 

      On his DRADIS screen, Derek watched Blondie’s Raptor approach and then come to a stop next to the target Raptor. 

      “Blondie to CAG,” called out thru the speakers in the C.I.C.  Slow and methodically, she began her report “Confirm wreckage is Raptor 2643, canopy is compromised, also looks like an explosion in the engine compartment” she paused for just a moment, “I can see Fly-Girl, she’s still strapped in, no sign of X-Ray.”

      Derek breathed out slowly, “Copy that Blondie, begin retrieval and return to base.”  He looked at the screen to his left, confirming medical teams waiting in the hangar deck.

      A heavy heart weighed down Karl as his Raptor carefully plodded thru the debris field.  “Bingo!” called out his E.S.O.  “Two contacts, one looks like the remains of a G.P. shuttle, the other, its mass matches that of a Raptor.  They should be coming up on your screen,” he paused for about a second, “now.”

      Sure enough, two new yellow dots began blinking in Hambone’s Head’s Up Display.  Toggling the mic, he confirmed the DRADIS readings with Odin, and then carefully proceeded to the wreckage, the escorting Vipers, shadowing their every move.  It took about an hour to recover the bodies and the black boxes from the two Raptors; the majority of the shuttle had disintegrated in the blast, and the Armistice Officer’s body was not found.

_1 hour later, C.I.C._

      Report in hand, Derek headed directly to Commander Grayson at the Command Table. “Commander Grayson, my report sir.”

      “Thank you, Captain,” he replied taking the folder from Derek.  “Summarize,” he said, setting the report in a pocket on the side of the table.

      Taking a deep breath, internally bracing himself, “Cylons sir, though the data is incomplete.  The flight recorders show a progression of system failures before finally shutting down.  Additionally, Fly-Girl’s last transmission to Bucket describes a small craft with a red light.  The station was destroyed by missile strike, the shuttle was caught in the explosion.  The raptors were destroyed by gunfire shortly after arriving in system.”

      “It’s been 40 years since we have had contact with them, Captain.  Does striking now make sense?” the Commander asked quietly.

      “No sir, to me it does not, but that is my opinion.”

      Commander Grayson pulled the report out of the pocket, and flipped it open as he continued “It is the opinion of Major Barclay, that a criminal element, the Ha’la’tha, perhaps, may be responsible. He hypothesizes that the base may have been destroyed to prevent the discovery of contra-band. Did you consider this Captain?”

      Derek paused before speaking, “Yes, sir, with all respect, it makes no sense for a criminal organization to use the base as a staging area.  It is too far from the colonies to be practical, and they know that it’s checked regularly by the C.D.F.”  He looked down at Major Barclay to judge his reaction.

      Petty Officer Sampson’s voice abruptly cut across the C.I.C. “Commander, priority message from Fleet Command.  It’s being broadcast in the clear, sir.” 

      Turning on his heel, the Commander made his way to the communications station.  Once there his expression grayed as he read the print out that was handed to him.  “Confirm this Alicia.” he said tersely as he folded the print out, sliding it into his waist band.  Time stretched during the 30 seconds it took the young Petty Officer to verify the authentication codes that arrived with the message.

      Sitting at her station with a stunned expression on her face, Petty Officer Sampson quietly reported to the Commander, “Message confirmed sir, security codes have been verified.”

       The commander squatted down, grunting as if struck, before standing back up to his full height.  “Thank you, Candice, please inform Fleet HQ that we are standing by and awaiting instructions.”   He turned towards Derek, “It seems you were right Captain.  I have just received word that the Cylons have launched an attack against the Colonies.”

      Derek and Major Barclay were now heading to join the Commander at the communications station.  Following the Major, Derek softly crashed into Roger, who had stopped in front of him.  “Sir?” he asked, straightening his tunic.

      Squaring his shoulders, he turned to the communication station, “Lt., please page Col. Petrakis to the C.I.C.” He paused and turned, facing Major Barclay, “Roger, please bring the ship to Condition One.” 

      The lights in C.I.C. switched from white to red as Derek returned to his station on the upper gallery.  His mind scrambled, Major Barclay’s voice carried thru the C.I.C. and the ship itself.  “All Hands, Action Stations, Action Stations.  Set Condition One throughout the ship.  All departments report to Tactical upon reaching Condition One.  This is not a drill.”

      Staring blankly at the status screens in front of him, he shook his head to break the fog that clouded his thoughts.  Looking to the command table he saw Col. Petrakis, now ashen faced, standing next to the commander, grimly reading the message that had come thru just minutes earlier.  Commander Grayson picked up the phone, bringing it to his lips.  “This is the Commander.  Moments ago we received word that the Cylons have initiated a major offensive against the Colonies.  We do not know the size or the disposition of the attacking forces, though we do know that our fleet was taken by surprise, and have taken heavy losses.  We are awaiting instructions from Fleet HQ, and when we have orders, we will join the fight.  All departments begin combat preparations.  Let’s make this a day that the Cylons regret.  This is the Commander.  That is all.”

      Derek spent the next few minutes at his station checking the status of the pilots and ships of the Odin’s Air wing.  Satisfied, he closed down his monitor and headed to the command table, where Commander Grayson was conferring with Col. Petrakis and Major Barclay.  He waited just a moment or two, catching the attention of Col. Petrakis.  “Sir, with your permission, I will be in the hangar.”  The commander gave him a quick nod, and he was off, breaking into a jog as he passed thru the C.I.C.’s hatch. 

 


	3. A Brief Calm

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12. – Helios Beta System, Approaching Virgon._

          Interlocking his fingers, Marel Banners, the second mate on the whale-like commercial freighter, yawned and stretched his arms as far he could before releasing them with a forced sigh.  He smiled as he checked the course, only a few more hours till port, then 3 days off.  This trip couldn’t end soon enough for him; savoring the thought of leave, he was about to ask Parah, the Chief Mate, if they could open up the throttle a tenth or two.  To hell with the Tylium, they could always buy more he thought.  An icon on his console began to blink red for his attention.  Frowning slightly, he slipped on his headset before toggling the com system on.

          Three loud buzzes sounded before an automated voice began.  “Attention.  This is an Emergency Broadcast from the Colonial Aerospace Administration, This Is Not a Test.  All civilian ships in the Helios Beta Star System are to hold position until further notice. Regular traffic may resume after an All Clear Signal is sent.  Do not approach the planets Virgon, Leonis, or any other Colonial Port in the Helios Beta System under any circumstances.” 

          Seeing the man suddenly stiffen, Parah waited for the twenty-something year old Navigator and Com officer’s report.  Just slightly concerned, Parah gruffly queried the officer, “Well?” 

          Confusion and a hint of aggravation on his face, Marel turned to his superior, “C.A.A. has ordered all ships in this system to hold position.”

          “Mr. Banners, please play the message over the speakers.”  He looked down, quickly bringing up information from the communication servers and DRADIS scanners.  His review finished moments later, Parah grabbed the corded phone from the side of the chair and quickly relayed the message to the Captain.  With a grunt, the seasoned officer got up and crossed to the helm station, “Mr. Evans, bring the ship to a complete stop.  Mr. Banners, please send our position to Virgon Control.”  He paused a moment, waiting for confirmation that his orders had been carried out.  “All right people, now we wait.”

 

  _Odin Hangar Deck_         

          In the hangar, orange covered crewman wielding wrenches, spanners, and tablets were swarming over every one of the twenty Vipers and the two remaining Raptors assigned to the Odin.  Three groups of two-man teams weaved and wound their way thru planes and other obstructions in the hangar as they each manhandled a large fuel line dispensing critical Tylium to each plane. To the left a small legion of crewmen in red-coveralls was determinedly pushing several carts loaded with missiles or carrying countless rounds of bullets to be loaded onto each craft.  There were small groups of yellow-clad crew men standing to the side, waiting their turn to move the planes into position.  Dispersed throughout, safety officers dressed in white watched over their flock.  And in the center stood a diminutive copper-haired woman, barking seemingly random, but specifically-directed orders to the players waltzing through the massive hangar.

          Derek paused a moment before carefully crossing the space towards his Viper.  He had just gotten to it, ducking under the wing.  He was inspecting the starboard missile rack when a very sharp, “Captain!” cut thru the background cacophony of noise that dominated the hangar.  He turned his head, a mix of determination and aggravation shown on Chief Jung’s face.

          “Captain!” she barked again, stalking towards him “While I appreciate your dedication, this is not the best time!”  Quickly closing the distance between them, she came to a stop before finishing dismissively, “Sir.”

          Looking down at her, Derek stuttered for a second, before sheepishly uttering, “I uh, thought I… never mind.”

          Swishing her hands at him she kiddingly scolded, “Go! Go! Go!”

          “Right, if any of the other pilots come, send them to the ready room.  Thanks.”

          “No problem Captain, thank you for getting out of my hair!” she smiled back and gave a brief curtsy for effect.  Suddenly, she snapped her head to the left, her body immediately following, “Marcelli!  You Frack Wit!”  Derek watched her storm across the hangar deck, “We just put that Gods-Damned Reaction Control Thruster back together!”

          Making a hasty retreat, he went a few meters down the corridor, finally reaching a small hatch on his left, a black placard to the right of the handle read “Pilots Ready Room”.  He pulled the hatch open and quickly ducked through and into the dark room.  The lights came on automatically as he entered.  The floor sloped down slightly towards the front.  Derek squared his shoulders as the weight of the room pressed on him.  Ten rows of chairs bisected by a narrow walkway filled the room; the walls along the sides were decorated with framed prints and rosters of the current and former squadrons who had called the Odin home.  Long and narrow, the room was large enough to accommodate 80.  Muted lighting, tan walls, and an onyx tiled floor conveyed a serious and contemplative atmosphere to its occupants. 

          He reached the lectern and switched on the computer.  There were several screens in front of him, each one designed to display different types of information.  Typing his security clearance into the computer, he would be able to access any information, orders, and communications that were necessary.  

          He walked to the poster which displayed the current squadron serving aboard the Odin.  Three bronze stylized chevrons were depicted “flying” out of the frame.  Large italicized letters above the picture read “FC 215 - Deltas”, below the logo, in smaller print was a list of the pilots and crew for the squadron.  His name, call-sign, and position were centered above the rest.

          The intercom chirped, “Attention, Captain Robinaux, contact C.I.C. immediately.  Repeat, Captain Robinaux, contact C.I.C. immediately.”

          He picked up the receiver and pushed the activation button, “This is Captain Robinaux, please patch me through to C.I.C. Thank you.”

          Petty Officer Sampson’s voice came thru the line, “Captain, please turn your monitor to channel 3 for conference with Actual.”

          Turning on the monitor Derek found that the Commander, the Colonel, and Major Barclay were waiting for him.   “Captain, we have just received orders” he paused, sharing a troubled look with the Colonel next to him, “Fleet HQ at Picon has been destroyed, we are heading to Virgon.  Admiral Nagala is taking command of the fleet there.”

          Derek reviewed the information that was scrolling across the screen next to him.  The data seemed not surreal, but impossible, a terrible dream that could never actually happen.  Numbly, the officers discussed this nightmare as if it were fact, and within 10 minutes, had roughed out a plan of action, their collective best for entering the fray.

 

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12. – Bridge_

          Standing behind the helmsman, Rebecca Davenport glared through the forward windows.  Buzzing chaotically in the background, disorganized, broken, and garbled wireless messages called out quietly through the main speakers, more often than not, contradicting each other.  “I can’t see shit,” she growled.  Not that she expected to see anything, but she knew that it was better than continuing to pace through the cramped bridge.  She took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm the storm of emotions raging through her. “So? Anything?” she asked in a clipped huff.

          Marel Banners looked to Parah, as if for reassurance before answering.  “Not a word skipper. We are maintaining position outside of Virgon per C.A.A. orders.” He waited while her entire body seemed to coil in frustration, then release as she made a choking sound in resignation.  “We’re getting a lot of cross talk on the wireless, none of it good though.” 

          "Well, what are you getting?”  She scowled, while hard work, blunt honesty, and vulgar humor came naturally to her, patience did not.

          To her surprise, Parah answered for the nervous navigator.  Short and hefty, in his mid-fifties, her Chief Mate was a fellow retired Colonial Officer.  “Well, if you’re to believe the nonsense on the radio, you’d think that there’s a war on, and the fleet is being slaughtered.”  He paused, his blue eyes hardening, “That’s crap though; DRADIS and wireless signals indicate at least three separate C.D.F. battle groups in system.  That’s a hell of a lot of firepower.”  Puffing his chest out in self-importance, his square head now focused down, directly at her, “If you ask me, there’s been some sort of disaster, my bet is another terrorist attack.”  He raised his hands, “Some of those damn ‘freedom fighters’,” pantomiming quotation marks with his fingers he snorted.

          Rolling her eyes, “Don’t forget, Parah, most of us on this ship, myself included, are related to some of those ‘freedom fighters’” she replied icily, complete with air quotes.  “Now then, am I correct in assuming that we are too far out of system for effective DRADIS coverage?” she asked, while walking to the back of the cramped bridge.

          “Uh, yes ma’am” replied the navigator, sounding even more timid than usual.

          “Very well, continue monitoring the wireless and DRADIS, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  With that, she turned her back to the crew and quickly proceeded out of the hatch towards the officer’s mess.

_Odin – Pilot’s Ready Room_

          Singly at first, then in small groups of three to five, the crew members of Odin’s air wing began filing into the room.  The usual banter and bravado between the men and women of the squadron was gone, replaced by sorrow, anger, shock, and determination.  Derek cleared his throat briefly.  Behind him and to his right, a screen displayed the Helios Beta star system.  Home to the colonies of Leonis and Virgon, a large asteroid belt separated the interior Leonis from its forested rival.  “Let me have your eyes.” he paused momentarily, finding everyone already at attention.  “We will be joining the fight at Virgon.”  A brief pause, he continued, “Admiral Nagala has interposed his fleet along this line between the Cylons and the planet.”   Green circles lit on the screen behind him indicating the position of the enormous Colonial fleet.  Flashing red pentagons facing them indicated the Cylons.  We will be rejoining the Battlestar Ajax and the rest of Battlestar Group 43, as well as the Battlestars Columbia, Erasmus, Jupiter, Mercury and their support vessels.”  He paused a moment to appraise the demeanor of the soldiers under his command.  “We will trap the Cylon fleet between Virgon and the Ouranos Asteroid Belt”.  Additional green circles flashed into existence on the outside of the asteroid belt.  “This will allow us to neutralize any surviving Cylon units, protect Leonis and other core assets from interior incursions, and deny the Cylons refuge in the asteroid field.”

          Most of the flight crews were taking notes, others nodding their heads, a few with vengeance in their eyes were ready to bolt to their Vipers.  “Our mission is to engage any Raiders, and other small support craft, be that landing craft, air control craft, etc.”  He spent the next few minutes summarizing the details of their attack, ordinance types and amounts being loaded onto the Vipers and Raptors, and the little bit of information that they had on their opponents. When he finished, Derek deliberately scanned across the room and back.  “Today, the Cylons drew first blood, and it was our blood.”  The schematics of the Cylon craft behind him were replaced with photos of the four Raptor crewman lost at Armistice Station. A simmering rage began to burn deep inside, with both hands tightly grabbing the top of the podium he growled.   “Remember your duty, stay with your wing-man, if you lose your wing-man, find another, and let’s make gods-damned sure, that we repay our losses earlier today in spades!”  He paused one last time, releasing the podium; he placed his hands at his side as he stalked in front of the lectern.  His head straight, eyes hard and determined, he seemed to look every pilot and service member in the eye at once.  “History will record that the first shots of this war were fired upon members of the Escort Cruiser Odin.  I would like for history to record that Odin fired the last shots.” 

          “SO SAY WE ALL!”  Every soldier in the room thundered in unison, the narrow walls and hard ceiling and floor amplifying their cry of solidarity.  “SO SAY WE ALL!”  Derek joined the third and final chorus, his deep voice pushing through the others, “SO SAY WE ALL!”

          “Then man your planes, and let’s kill some Fracking Toasters!” Derek watched as the group stormed out of the ready room in a barely controlled rush.  Derek followed them down the hall, within moments they were swarming thru the hangar deck. 

          Upon reaching his Mark VII Viper, Derek began a quick walk around of his plane, checking the engines, their mounts, scanners, and landing gear.  His hands stopped when he reached the starboard cannon, his fingers softly padding the barrel, quietly reassuring himself and his plane that they were ready to fire their first shots in anger.  He dipped under the wing, checking the missiles latched underneath, then scrambled below, checking the port side missiles and finally, pausing again at the port side cannon.  He forcefully squeezed the barrel of the gun before emerging from below.  His resolved steeled, he swiftly climbed the ladder and gracefully slipped into the cockpit. 

          A second set of hands appeared from the right, fingers quickly connecting data cords and life support cables from his suit to the plane.  When complete, he and his Viper would nearly be one, each taking cues from the other, prodding and supporting the other when needed.  Only together, could man and machine hope to save their friends and families.  He gave a quick thumb’s up to the deck hand, who responded with a quick salute before scrambling down the ladder as the canopy closed down over his head.  Derek, immersed in his preflight checklist, barely noticed the four yellow clad crewmen, hooking his Viper to the tractor, slowly pushing him through the airlock and into the launch tube in front of him.  His Viper came to a sudden stop, pale bluish-white lights along the ceiling and recessed into the walls dimly illuminated the long triangular tube in front of him. 

          A quiet beep signaled through his helmet speakers, “Attention all hands, this is the Commander.  In a few moments, we will be jumping to Virgon to aid our brothers in this desperate battle.” The Commander paused for affect “Trust your training and your fellow crew, and we will come through this together.  Prepare for immediate combat jump on my mark.” 

          He reached into the pocket on his left breast, carefully retrieving a small picture and tape.  Reaching to the only bare spot in the cockpit in front of him, he softly posted it, before gently tracing the outline of his wife and daughter staring back at him.


	4. The Storm Wall

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12. – Bridge._

 “Captain” Marel Banners called out, “I just detected what appears to be a nuclear detonation over Virgon.”

“Lords of Kobol.”  Spinning on her heels, she couldn’t help but notice the cowed bridge crew, physically bracing themselves for her next outburst.  “Can you confirm that?” she asked.

“Sorry Skipper, we’re still too far out.” answered the young navigator.  “Com traffic just spiked though, I’ll put it on the speakers.”  With the turn of a knob, the small bridge was suddenly filled with panicked voices, variously shrieking in horror, moaning in disbelief, or desperately calling for help.

Horrified, Rebecca braced herself.  She sat a little taller in her seat, facing the speakers above her, as if daring them to continue their assault.  Typing rapidly into her console, she tried to coax more information out of the ship’s limited sensor arrays.

“My gods, they’re everywhere!” the shrill voice of a terrified woman called out, catching the attention of the entire bridge crew.  With rapt attention, not a word was spoken, not a breath was exhaled, as the entire crew stared at the small overhead speaker.

“What are they?!” a panicking man’s voice called out.

“Noooo!” The woman screamed. “Did anyone see that?!”  Rebecca could hear sobs clearly over the wireless.  “I can’t believe it, this can’t be happening!”  

A new voice surfaced, calm and somber, “I saw it.  Whoever they are, they just destroyed Hagenus Station.  Boskirk is burning.  I see at least three Battlestars drifting and on fire.” 

The woman’s voice returned, spiteful, “What do you mean whoever!  It has to be Cylons, who else?” her transmission cut off suddenly, replaced with static.

The calm man’s voice returned, though with urgency, and a hint of dread now.  “They’re going after civilians.  I’m getting the hell out of here.  I suggest anyone else who can do the same.” 

Rebecca slowly surveyed the bridge, the officers sat slumped at their stations.  Shock and defeat shown on their faces as they we’re assailed by the ghastly calls for help playing over the speakers.  “Turn that shit off!” she barked defiantly.

Marel’s head snapped at that, “Yes, Ma’am,” he responded, switching the speakers off.

She turned to Parah, “Get on the horn, tell Reese to get the engines fired.”  She looked down at her console again, carefully scrolling through the data in front of her. With a renewed vigor, she walked to the plotting table at the aft end of the compartment.

Parah put the phone down, “Engines coming online, we should be ready to move in five.”  Choosing his words carefully, he tilted his head slightly towards his Captain, “Rebecca, if you’re thinking of finding someplace a little less hot, I’d agree with you.”  He looked down at the console in front of him, before continuing “We should head to Troy, wait out this mess there,” he stated in a tone which booked no argument.

Determinedly, Rebecca slowly shook her head.  “Actually, I want to head in system, get a better picture of what’s going on, and see if we can help.” She looked directly at Parah, waiting for his dissent, knowing that he would lead any protest from her command crew. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Parah exploded.  He quickly surveyed the other members of the bridge; “We have orders to stay put, let the Fleet deal with this.  That’s their job, not ours.”

Clenching her jaw momentarily, she called back, “No. We’re not running.” she stated. “But we need to see what’s going on.  If these reports are right, there won’t be a fleet to protect us, and if they find us, may the Lords of Kobol have mercy.  If these reports are right, we grab anyone alive that we can, and get the hell out of here!”

“And go where Rebecca?” he shot back.

She was diligently scrolling through the charts, trying to divine a safe harbor.  She finally settled on the chart of the Helios Gamma System, jabbing her finger at her home planet, “Sagittaron!” she snarled.  “It’s nowhere near Caprica or Picon, it has support from Scorpia, and we’re too damn poor to rate a first strike assignment by the Cylons.”  She glared across the bridge at Parah, “If these reports are true, we’ll hole up there till things settle down.”

Bristling, Parah emphatically shook his head, “This is a bad idea.  For all we know, Sagittaron is gone too; you could be leading us from the frying pan into the fire!”  He called out plaintively.  “We need to stay in system until we know more, and we sure as hell don’t need to take this slow un-armed cow into harm’s way!”

“Parah, Virgon control has our position recorded; you think the Cylons can’t get that data?”  She waited as her Chief Mate considered that simple fact.  “If we stay here the Cylons will find us.  We need to leave this system, but I’m not leaving blind.  We find out as much as we can, grab any survivors, and then we get the hell out of here!”  Fire burning in Rebecca’s eyes, she glared at her X.O.  Steeling herself with a deliberate and calm voice she called out to the Navigator; “Marel, calculate a jump to Sagittaron, just outside of the Archeron Asteroid belt.  Parah, get your fat ass over here!" 

Leaning over the illuminated table, she pulled up the charts for the local system.  Virgon was directly in front of them, grabbing a grease pen, she began marking spots on the table where Colonial Defense Fleet ships were supposed to be.  She picked up the phone attached to the table and pressed the activation switch.  She held the phone in front of her; “Attention all hands, this is the Captain.”  She paused, now looking directly at Parah, “Virgon, and it appears most of the fleet have been attacked by Cylons.  I know most of you have no love for the military, but when it comes down to it, we are all Colonials, and we need to help them.  We could stay here and wait or we could run and hide, but we are not going to do that.  The command crew and I have decided, instead, that we are going in system and try to lend a hand.  The fleet is being decimated, and if we can save a single life, then we have to do that.  That is all.”

_Odin C.I.C._

Commander Grayson slowly surveyed the C.I.C. one last time before settling his gaze on the Navigation Officer, bringing his hands together in front of him he cleared his throat before calmly calling out “Put this on the intercom, please.” A soft chime indicated the intercom was online.  “Mr. Wills, insert the FTL Key and initiate jump to Virgon.”

          “Aye sir, FTL Key inserted and activated, jump commencing in 5, 4, 3, 2, Mark.”  Shaking his head slightly to rid the effects of the jump, he quickly checked his monitor, “Commander, FTL Jump 313 complete, now reading position just outside of the Ouranos Asteroid Belt.”

          Cutting the ship wide com with a hand signal, he turned his attention to the command table.  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”  Commander Grayson now looked to the young officer next to the Navigator at the helm station, “Specialist Martin, ship to station keeping, bring engines to full power.”

          “Aye sir, the Odin is at station keeping, engines coming to full power” the raspy voice of the solidly built helm officer replied. Checking her screen again, she quickly confirmed, “Engines and helm at your ready, Sir”.

          The Commander was looking at the overhead screens with an expectant air on his face.  “DRADIS MULTIPLE CONTACTS!” called across the C.I.C. as the screens above exploded to life.  Standing next to him, Colonel Petrakis gasped as she took in the data on the screens above them.  The DRADIS displayed a horde of Cylon Basestars rushing towards them with Cylon Raiders sweeping in front, clearing all obstacles in their path.  In their wake, the Colonial Fleet protecting Virgon drifted in ruins, many ships burning, most already wholly consumed, and all with Cylon Raiders swarming, killing any survivors that were missed.  Behind all of this was Virgon, nuclear fires raging across the surface, while more Raiders swooped down, like locusts, destroying everything. 

Refusing to outwardly react, Grayson ferociously stomped the notion to panic before it started. Training took over, orders sharp and staccato like rapidly firing out of him, the part of his brain designed for reflection sub-consciously bypassed for the moment.  “Tactical!  Ready flack batteries to engage Cylon Raiders.  Designate closest Basestar as Hostile Alpha.  Compute a firing solution and open fire with Armor Piercing Rounds as soon as you are in range for first four volleys! Switch to even mix Armor Piercing and High Explosive Rounds for successive volleys as necessary!”  Snapping his head to the left he called out “Helm! Set course for Hostile Alpha, present minimum aspect, Flank Speed!”  Turning his head back to the command table he called into the microphone clipped to his ear “L.S.O. launch all Vipers and Raptors immediately”.  He paused for a second, feeling the deck vibrate under his feet as the Odin altered course.  “X.O.  I need your key and authorization for the release of Nuclear Weapons.”

          Eyes open, but not seeing, the Colonel turned to the Commander.  “Sir?”

          “Colonel! I need you in the here and now.” He hissed just loud enough to grab her attention.  Nodding, her eyes focused on his now, they walked to the Tactical station together.  After retrieving the launch keys from the locked compartment, both officers input their security codes before activating the system.  “Major Barclay, load Ship to Ship Nuclear Missiles in Batteries 2-6, remove safeties, target Hostile Alpha.  Prepare to fire on my command.”

          With a void of emotion, the dark skinned Tactical Officer turned his ashen-face to his Commander and somberly responded “Yes, Sir.” 

_Escort Cruiser Odin, Port Flight Tube._

Moments before FTL Jump

          Derek closed his eyes, centering his mind, body and breathing, while allowing his rage and adrenaline to build.  So complete was his concentration he didn’t notice the lamps along the launch tube switch from blue-white to red, nor did he acknowledge the sensation of the jump engines simultaneously compressing and stretching him as they passed tens of light years instantly.

          “Green-Bean, this is shooter, I have control---Stand by.”  The shooter’s voice came thru Derek’s helmet speakers.  He rushed thru the checklist, his pitch just revealing the fear that he was feeling.  “Nav-Con Green… Interval Check… Pressure Check Green.  Viper 7521 ready for launch.”

          “Viper 7521 confirms board is green.” Derek paused for a second, knowing that his voice would be relayed throughout the ship.  “Green-Bean to Control, let’s do this,” he announced as calmly as possible.

          “Roger that Green-Bean, Good hunting.  Launch in 3, 2, Mark.”

          Time slowed for Derek as his Viper was catapulted down the tube.  He seemed to be pressed further into his seat than ever before, he saw every lamp, every structural brace, he could even see much of the lettering along the length of the launch tube.  Reality snapped back as his plane shot out of the port side of the ship.  Already missiles and artillery shells were pouring from the Odin’s guns towards an enemy Basestar directly ahead.  He curled above and across the dorsum of the mighty warship, leading his comrades into the fight.  “Green-Bean to Tactical, DRADIS shows 14 Cylon Raiders at 32 carom 45 coming our way, permission to engage.”

One of the Junior Bridge Officers immediately responded “Roger that, Green-Bean, all Vipers are to engage hostile craft.” 

“Green-Bean to all Vipers, pair up with assigned wingmen, attack pattern Omega 30, just like the simulators.  Let’s go!”  With Derek’s wingman next to him, he watched as the ten vipers smoothly slid into an arrowhead formation.  Behind him the next ten vipers were aligning into a similar formation below and on the port side of the ship.  Explosions appeared to his right.  With a lusty grin, he cheered as he saw the Basestar in front of him breaking up from the Odin’s onslaught.  In the next second, his triumph was replaced by primal fear as his eyes and then DRADIS registered hundreds of missiles heading back from the now burning Basestar.  No time for thought, he screamed into his mic.  “Green-Bean all Vipers!  Incoming missiles.  Scramble!  Scramble!  Scramble!” He mashed the throttles to full, the effect of the three engines squashing him into the back of his seat momentarily. 

He felt his body relax as the acceleration stopped.  Confused, he looked at his forward screens, they were dark.  Grunting loudly in surprise, his head slammed hard against the canopy and then into his console, knocking him unconscious as his Viper swung violently underneath him. 

_Odin C.I.C._

Moments earlier

Commander Grayson watched with satisfaction as the first of the artillery shells and missiles slammed home into the Cylon Basestar before them.  Already, fires along the axillary arms of their foe were readily apparent on the DRADIS screen above him.  “Time to end this,” he said to himself, his X.O. nodded her head in agreement.  “Tactical, fire nuclear missiles, tubes 2 and 3 now!”

          “Firing nuclear missiles, tubes 2 and 3, Aye Sir.” the voice of Major Barclay reported back.  On the DRADIS screen two red dots appeared quickly closing the distance with the Cylon Basestar.  “Missiles to reach target in 12 seconds.”  A swarm of Cylon missiles headed towards the Odin’s nuclear weapons.  Screening the missiles, the Odin’s artillery destroyed the majority of the Cylon’s defensive fire.  “Nuclear Missile 3 destroyed, Missile 2 to impact Hostile Alpha in 8 seconds,” Major Barclay reported.

          Grayson watched intently as the remaining nuclear missile suddenly split into eight signals.  One signal for each of the individual warheads and decoys which had separated from the main body.  He tensed as the Tactical Officer counted down the weapon’s final moments.

          “Contact in 3, 2, 1.  Impact!” Major Barclay paused as he verified his monitor.  “Warheads 1- 4 have struck Hostile Alpha!”  Pumping his fist in the air he exclaimed, “Hostile Alpha breaking up!  We got it sir!”

          “Good Job people!” a satisfied Commander Grayson responded.  Looking to his X.O, he started “Tactical, target…”

          “Vampire!  Vampire!” cut across the Commander’s order from the Tactical Station.   

Commander Grayson’s head snapped back up toward the DRADIS.  The screen was filled with white lines, each representing one or maybe ten enemy missiles headed right at them.  Major Barclay’s voice resurfaced, now filled with dread, calling out again “Tracking multiple missiles inbound, estimate 140, repeat One Four Zero missiles inbound!”

Colonel Petrakis voice rang out urgently, “All Guns Suppression Fire Now!”  Grayson’s eyes met hers, there was no fear, but she knew that it was useless.  The Odin would not survive this.  “Tactical, order all planes to evacuate the area now!”              

A tinny and shrill voice responded, “Sir!  Communications just went down sir!”  Grayson looked towards the Com Officer, just as the lights went off in the C.I.C.  Complete silence enveloped the ships nerve center.  

“Report!”  The Commander’s voice boomed across the C.I.C.  He was staggered by the first impact, grabbing the console in front for support, he held on as the second, third, tenth impacts shook the ship below him.  The explosions were too strong, they came too fast, and there were too many. Something exploded above him.  Burning knives of glass, plastic and metal dug into his scalp, neck, and back.  Crewmen were crying out across the C.I.C.  “May the gods avenge us!” he screamed as he was ripped from the command table.  Crumbling as he smashed into the upper gallery, his last sensations were a blinding light and searing heat.

Fires were raging across the Odin’s hull as the countless Cylon missiles slammed home.  Within a few seconds of the barrage, large explosions from inside the ship caused it to shudder, ejecting braces, equipment and people into the void.  Less than a minute after its arrival, the Odin began breaking up, the large alligator head completely shearing from the abdomen of the ship, the engine pods breaking off, rolling and spinning, crashing into each other.

Derek’s Viper was without power and drifting out of control towards deep space.  Believing him to be dead, a flight of three Cylon Raiders passed by on their way to the Odin.  Swiftly angling around and through the burning debris, the Raiders circled the remains of their foe.  Darting in and out of the wreckage, adding insult to injury; the sickle shaped craft mercilessly strafed every Viper, Raptor, and other


	5. Chapter 5.  Lost and Found

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12 – Bridge_

          Eyes focused on the ceiling-mounted DRADIS display, Captain Davenport hadn’t moved from the plotting table since they began their foolhardy recon of the Helios Beta Star System.  “Mr. Banners, please confirm position and time.”         

          Parah had not left the plotting table either and was standing across from her.  Scowling, he looked her in the eye, shaking his head slightly as he listened to the young officer confirm their location.  “You know you’re gonna get us killed, Rebecca,” he said quietly.

          “We can jump out of here before the Cylons get too close.”  Rebecca knew that despite his arrogance, his insubordination, and his pleading otherwise, Parah, even retired, was still a Colonial Officer through and through.  She knew that in the end, his pride would demand him to do everything in his power.  To help defend his fellow service members.

          His gaze softened a bit, “Yeah, but you do know the easy part is over, right?”  Leaning over the plotting table, he began tapping their projected course.  “We’ve been at this a little over two hours now, even with this zig-zag course, we’re starting to get in system.  It won’t be too long before we’re seen, and when someone comes over for a look-see…”

          Nodding her head reluctantly, she answered “Yeah, hopefully, we’ll find someone or at least grab supplies before we have to bug out.”

_Viper 7521 – Helios Beta System_

          Derek’s head throbbed, his eyes were pressed closed.  Not that it mattered everything was dark anyway.  He had nearly thrown up the last time he opened them, mistakenly focusing on the dark control panels in front of him.  Damn concussion.  Grimacing, he opened his eyes slowly, expecting a wave of nausea to overwhelm him.  It didn’t come.  Instead he found himself staring into the dark void.  “Now what?” he said to himself.  Limited O2, drifting out of system, he would only too soon be joining his shipmates in the afterlife.  He thought of his daughter and his wife.  He hoped they were safe, that the Cylons hadn’t destroyed Caprica too.  Grief overtook him, his fear, pain, and sorrow culminating in body-shaking sobs.  Tiring, his sobs turned to moans, and finally spent, he fell into a fit full sleep. 

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12- Bridge_

          “Captain, I may have something on DRADIS,” the helmsman called out from his station.         

          Quickly turning her attention to the DRADIS screen, Rebecca frowned at the highlighted object drifting in front of them.  The sensor data had resolved substantially in the last half hour, revealing an even greater catastrophe than feared.  From this range they were able to distinguish several entire Battlestar Groups in ruins near the planet.  “Looks like more debris,” she commented, manually adjusting the sensor feeds.

          “I think this one may be worth a second look, Skipper.” Parah commented as he scrutinized the display.  With his Captain’s full attention now, he began calling up data from the sensor focus he performed, “Well, the size is spot on for a Viper, it’s intact, and its course and speed have it originating from the same location that one of our Battle Groups was destroyed at.” 

          “Show me,” she replied, chewing on the grease pen that she had been using to update the hopelessly chaotic charts.  Her bright brown eyes poured over the sensor data before she reviewed the simulation analysis.  It was a long shot, she thought.  Grabbing a fresh overlay, she began furiously scribbling coordinates, velocity measurements, gravitational constants, and other data points she would need to solve the necessary equations.  Equations which would tell her if there was any chance that this seemingly random bit of drifting debris could in fact be much more than its simple appearance.  She stared at the solution circled at the bottom of the jumble of numbers.  Her face relaxed slightly.  The intensity on her eyes diminished, but their brightness remained, and a small smile tugged at her lips.  “Less than 2% likely Parah,” she breathed out easily.

          Parah stood there quietly for a moment, allowing the fleeting moment of respite to pass.  “Like I said, worth a second a look, Captain” he replied earnestly.   

          Rebecca grimaced slightly, “I agree, let’s check this out.”  She paused a moment, drawing a line that would intercept the freighter.  “Parah, get the Grapplers warmed.  We’re gonna need Tony and Marsha to check this thing out once we get close.”  She watched her Chief Mate hurry back to his station with a determination she had never seen before.  She transferred the data from the plotting table before returning to the center seat. “Mr. Evans, bring us to a complete stop.” Pausing, she addressed the Navigator, “Mr. Banners plot a course to intercept the object designated Bogey 1”. 

          It took a few minutes for the large ship to come to a full stop, by which time the new course had been set and loaded into both the navigation and helm systems.  Slowly the freighter rotated to its new vector, and with a brilliant flare from the eight aft engines, the behemoth slowly began to lumber towards a point in front of the unknown wreckage that they were tracking.

_Grappler 1- approaching object_

          Essentially a large three-fingered claw with two stern engine pods and an offset cockpit, the Grappler was neither swift nor graceful.  Still, Tony gripped the controls tightly as he pushed his awkward vehicle as fast as it would take him.  His eyes focused on the DRADIS screen in front of him as he counted down the distance and time from the unknown object to which he was headed.  An audible alarm beeped once. “500 meters from target,” he called out, quickly pulling the throttle back to 1/3 power.   Looking out the cockpit now, he flipped on the floodlights and began scanning the ink like blackness.

          “I See It! At your 5 O-Clock low!” Marsha’s voice reported through the wireless.

          Craning his head down and to the right, he scanned the area indicated by his colleague.   “I see it now, definitely a Viper.” Tony confirmed, quickly adjusting his ship’s heading to close in on it from behind.  Illuminated by his flood lights, Tony began visually scanning the Viper while bringing the articulated arms of his craft online.  Relative to its course, the ship was moving cock–eyed in a nose down orientation, the ventral surfaces were facing forward.  At least it wasn’t spinning, he thought.  Still, getting a clean grab on a moving target with no navigation lights was going to be difficult.  He took his time getting behind the Viper, being sure to match the damaged ship’s orientation and course exactly.  “Grappler 1 to Skipper, I am in position, proceeding with capture now.” 

          Rebecca’s terse voice responded “Acknowledged Tony.  Be quick about it, you’ve got our asses hanging in the wind out here”. 

_Viper 7521 – drifting in Helios Beta Star System_

          “What the Frack?!” Derek woke with a start as his Viper lurched to the left.  He squeezed his eyelids tight briefly; a bright light shone from behind illuminating the outside of his plane.  Attached to the dorsum of his plane’s long nose and curving above and behind him, was a scratched and pitted white steel boom.  Looking out of his cockpit, he saw an additional arm on each side.  Nearly overcome by vertigo, he was suddenly pressed hard into the right side of his seat as his Viper rapidly slowed and then abruptly tipped up and spun counter-clockwise.

          He kept his eyes closed while taking several deep breaths as he adjusted to his new situation.  Quickly flipping several switches, he attempted to restart his craft to no avail.  Assuming he was being taken prisoner by Cylons, he quickly reached into a compartment next to his left thigh, readying his fire-arm and then grabbing a syringe with enough sodium cyanide to end his life quickly.  With grim awareness of what was likely ahead, he sat back and looked out of the canopy at the countless stars before him.  “There!” he cried out, noticing a blinking pattern of navigational lights at his 10 O’clock high.  He jumped when several floodlights lit up large expanses of the ship, laughing out loud when he saw a kilometer long cigar shaped vessel in front of him.  With a ray-like wing on each side of the rear quarter, and eight large engine pods at the stern, the massive inter-system freighter filled his eyes with unexpected hope.  Releasing a sigh of relief, he quickly put away the suicide needle and hand gun.  Reaching for a compartment below, he pulled and twisted a lever out of the floor board.  Shifting slightly against his flight harness, he put his foot on top of the pedal and began to pump up and down, manually lowering his plane’s landing gear.  After a labored five minutes he felt the gear click into place.  Bending over, he twisted the lever back before re-stowing it.

          Exhausted and nauseous, Derek closed his eyes as his plane was slowly towed inside the cargo ship.  His Viper settled to the deck with a sharp thud, jarring him to his senses.  With a sudden panic, he grabbed his fire-arm, searching the crowded cargo bay for Cylons.  Seeing nothing suspicious, he scanned the hangar thru his canopy more carefully.   It was a brightly lit space, with just enough room on the deck to squeeze his Viper in with four lifeboats and a Grappler Utility Craft; quite possibly the one that brought him on board.   Looking down he saw two men dressed in bright orange coveralls approaching his plane with a rolling stair case.  A third man followed, barrel chested with greasy brown hair covering a ruddy mustached face, his lite duty flight suit distinguishing him as the Grappler pilot that had brought him aboard.

          He had just found a hatch leading into the ship when he heard the staircase clang against the side of his Viper.  Quickly working to unstrap the flight harness as well as the various life support and data cables connecting him to his plane, he made sure that his fire-arm was within easy reach.  He paused as his fingers found the collar release under his helmet.  Better to leave it on he thought.  He popped his canopy, and after a final look around the hangar bay, pistol in hand, he stood up and began to swing onto the stairs.  He closed his eyes as a tsunami of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him.  Retching violently, arms flailing for any purchase, he felt his body collapse and fall as he blacked out.

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12 – Bridge_

          “Very good; be sure to keep us updated Doc.”  With a click, Parah set the phone back in its base.  Turning to face his Captain he began his report, “Both Grapplers and the Viper we picked up are secured.  Nurse Harris reports that the pilot we picked up,” he paused to check the notes at his station, “a Captain Derek Robinaux, is being treated for dehydration and a mild concussion.  He should be up and moving in an hour or so.” With a chuckle he quickly added, “He’s lucky Mike was standing under him when he fell off his bird.”       

          Looking down at the map on the plotting table below her, Rebecca sighed quietly as she contemplated whether they should make their escape or continue to press their luck moving further in system.  Turning to Parah, who had joined her at the plotting table, the expression on his face clearly showed the same debate being fiercely argued in his mind. “Let’s stay here a little longer, see if any of those contacts noticed us.  If not, then we can push on.”  She began silently counting the seconds, waiting for a curt protest from her X.O.  Hearing none, she looked up, before continuing, “All right, first thing we need is better intel.”  Ignoring the quizzical expression on Parah’s face, she quickly picked up the phone, depressing a key on the handset.

          “Engineering, Naiman,” the brusque voice identified itself to her.

          “Reese, I need you to get the wireless set and recorder out of that Viper, and then patch it into our com-system here on the bridge,” she quickly stated.

          “We should be able to get it hooked up in half hour,” he replied.

          “Then better get a move on,” she answered before closing the line.

          “You know that’s CDF property Rebecca,” Parah stated as she set the phone back in its receiver.

          With a slightly aggravated expression she sarcastically quipped “Well, as I see it, 90% of ownership is possession, and that Viper is in our hold.”  She paused a second, a conniving smile just forming.  Turning back to the plotting table, she and Parah began to refine the course they had previously set.

          It took a few minutes longer than the thirty that had been predicted to hook up the military wireless set to their com system.  With relatively little DRADIS activity in the last twenty minutes, she had decided to resume their search and rescue mission.  Their course was taking them towards a new set of contacts, contacts which were much closer to the combat zone.

Hovering over the wireless set, Rebecca scowled at the connections before shaking her head in frustration.  “Well Marel, are we receiving?”

          Marel looked back at her, the normally pensive expression he wore seemingly magnified a hundred times since the news of the attack.  “Yeah, Boss, signal frequency is clear, we are receiving.”  He paused, “I am also downloading several messages that were stored on the Viper’s Wireless Recorder.”

          “Great, so the wireless set is working.  We just can’t access any of the transmissions,” she replied tapping lightly at the red LED on the wireless display,

          “Yes ma’am, transmissions on this set are password protected”

          Turning to Parah she lightly quipped, “Seems CDF would agree with you.”  She paused a moment before addressing the bridge crew, “Alright then we carry on folks.”


	6. Uncharted Territory

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12- Life Station_

       Moaning softly, Derek slowly opened his eyes before carefully rolling on his back.  Directly above him, the bright fluorescent lamp and white acoustic tile ceiling forced him to squash his eyes closed and turn his head to the side.  Gritting his teeth, he swung his legs over the cot as he brought himself to a sitting position.    

       “Captain Robinaux?”  A soft voice called out.  A privacy curtain folded to the left, revealing a thin blonde-haired woman, probably in her early 20’s.  Stopping in front of him, with an air of worry she looked him over quickly, “How are you feeling?”

       Looking down he realized for the first time that his flight suit had been replaced with a set of loosely-fitting teal shorts and a matching button down jumper.  He rolled his neck in a circle, testing the tender muscles before replying, “Good, my headache is gone.”  He paused a moment, concern washing over his face.  “Where am I?”

       “You’re on the Freighter Bill Thurston 12; we’re based out of Sagittaron.  We picked you up about an hour ago.”  Waiting for him to nod his head, she continued, “I treated your concussion.  Your last scan was clear, so you should be fully recovered.”   Putting the clipboard in the folder on the wall, she quickly added, “You can stay as long as you need, of course, but if you’re up to it, I’m sure the Skipper would like to talk to you.  Your flight suit is pretty grimy.  We have some coveralls you can wear in the meantime.”

       “Thanks Doctor.  I think I’ll do that,” he said taking the parcel of folded clothes from her.

       “Actually, I’m just a nurse, sir,” she corrected.

       Standing up, he stuck his hand out, “I’m Derek, and again, thank you.”

       “I’m glad we found you.  My name is Spera Harris.”  She paused a moment, “I’m gonna tell the Captain that you’re up.”  With that she turned to leave, the curtain flapping closed behind her.  Finding himself alone, he got up and crossed the two steps across the exam room to a shelf which held his flight helmet.  Picking it up, he noticed a small dent on the back side of his helmet, and almost directly across from it, there was a small white scratch on the face screen.  “No shit,” he muttered quietly. 

       Following the nurse thru the freighter’s narrow corridors, it only took a few minutes to reach the bridge, the hatch already swinging open toward them.  Derek stood behind the young woman, bathed in yellowish light.  The small confines of the compartment invoked a claustrophobic feel to the tall Captain.      

       “Skipper,” Spera called out, addressing the short hefty woman standing at the plotting table. “This is Captain Derek Robinaux.”  She waited for Rebecca to acknowledge her, then turning to Derek she introduced the ship’s C.O., “This is Captain Davenport.”

       Derek stepped past the nurse, engulfing the rough and calloused hand inside of his, “Thank you, Captain.” 

       “Of course.  Welcome aboard.”  Motioning towards the plotting table, she indicated two men watching him.  “To the left, Parah Gammons, Chief Mate; and that is Marel Banners, my navigator and com officer.”

       Nodding his head at the two of them, Derek looked down at the table in front of him, studying a course which was taking them towards a cluster of contacts.  They were unpowered and drifting.  He watched as two green signals separated from the large commercial ship, speeding towards the wreckage in front of them. 

       Scratchy and distorted, a man’s voice called across the bridge, “This is Grappler 1.  I have eyes on the contacts now, approximately two dozen total, two Vipers, one Raptor, rest are life pods.  The Raptor and Vipers are heavily damaged, no sign of life in either.  The life pods have moderate damage, but are mostly intact.”

       Shaking his head slowly, Derek looked over the bridge crew, grief and futility pulling on their faces and bodies like an anchor.  He closed his eyes, feeling his shoulders settle at the weight that he felt. 

       “Tony, start with the life pods, prioritize ones that are in the best condition.  If we have time we’ll grab the Raptor and Vipers.”  She paused a moment, looking at the overhead DRADIS.  “Were going to bring the ship in close.  Number 5 Hold is prepped.  We’ll stay here as long as we can, but first sign of trouble we’re leaving, so be ready to drop everything and get your ass back here if called.”  Squaring her shoulders as she turned to the rescued Captain, she curtly asked, “Which ship were you on, Captain?  Any chance of survivors?”

       Refocusing on Rebecca, he was surprised by the strength and the resolve that shown through her eyes.  “I was on the Odin, ma’am” he said.  Adjusting the settings on one of the Navigation Screens, he pointed to a debris field near the Ouranos Belt.   “Her reactors let go right below me, I don’t see how anyone survived.”  A pang of sorrow welled up.  He coughed into his fist briefly, “To be honest, I don’t know how I survived.”  Pressing his eyes closed and open a couple times, he looked again at the com station, seeing the Viper’s wireless set tied into their system for the first time.  Smirking, “Is that working at all for you, Captain?” he asked, pointing.    

       Her lips twisted into an aggravated frown, “Rebecca, and no.  Seems I need a security code.”

       “Thought so,” Derek replied, quickly striding over to the com station.  Sitting down, he began entering the required authentication.  Moments later, the red LED on the wireless set turned green, and the receiver began to decode and display a list of messages that had been downloaded.  Slipping on a set of headphones, Derek began going through the communication records.  The first messages were status updates and readiness checks.  But as he continued to sift through the com reports, the tenor quickly changed.  A sense of dread worked its way up his spine as he read reports of Vipers and Raptors lost and Battlestars shutting down.  Within three minutes of first contact, a staggering list of casualties was recorded. A list of ships both revered for their service and technological might, Battlestars which included the Erasmus, the Mercury, the Solaria, the Columbia, the Triton and her entire battle group, and the Atlantia, the fleet’s flagship were all lost.  He continued searching through the logs.  Before long he found the Battlestar Ajax, the command ship for Battlestar Group 43.  Bracing himself, he pushed on, searching, scanning, and there it was, right in front of him.  Tears streaming down his face, Derek bowed his head down, covering his face in his hands, the reality of the day’s losses assaulting him again, physically breaking him down.  Like a sledge repeatedly pummeling him, the words in front of him brutally reaffirmed the pain, loss, and fear which had consumed him this day. 

**“E.C. Odin – System Failure – Malfunction. Destroyed 905/1237 Z”**

_Grappler 1_

       Tony struggled to keep the ungainly craft on an even course; burdened as it was carrying one life pod in the forward arms and trailing four more bundled together by magnetically charged “Smart Cables”.  Two hundred meters ahead of him, Marsha, the junior Grappler pilot, carried the same load effortlessly.  At 150 meters from the BT-12 Tony brought his ship to a stop while Marsha transferred the life pods to the ship. 

       With an unnatural grace, Marsha brought her craft to a stop below the ventral cargo hold and then easily spun her craft 180 degrees.  Oriented upside down relative to the ship, she lowered her Grappler, cargo first, towards the cavernous hold.  The entire process only took her about ten minutes to complete. 

       Passing him as she headed back to pick up a second load, Tony couldn’t help but curse quietly with a bit of mild jealousy.  He carefully resumed his course back to the ship, driving his Grappler a little harder than he normally would.  He was below the hold a little faster than he expected, and with a sigh of relief was able to bring his craft to a stop a few meters before the large accordion door in front of him.  Checking the distance to the ship, he fired his lateral thrusters, spinning his craft over.  “Grappler 1 to Loadmaster, ready for transfer,” he called out.  Switching on his ventral camera, he watched as a thick boom extended out of the bay towards him.  The small ship lurched slightly as the freighter’s arm attached to the cargo below him. 

       “Loadmaster to Grappler 1, we have solid attachment, release cargo.” Parah’s voice called out through the cabin.

       Flipping a switch, he released the cable, feeling his ship shift slightly as it was relieved of its charge.  He waited, watching the clock on his forward console as the boom slowly pulled the life pods into the ship.  Below him the crew scrambled in the hold, positioning and securing the life pods to the deck.  His agitation building, he waited as the boom slowly extended towards his ship again.  With the dorsal arm on his Grappler already released and rotated back, he watched as the boom crept towards him, finally stopping with its attachment head directly above the life pod’s dorsal anchor.  Confirming that the life pod was fixed to the freighter’s boom, he released the remaining two arms on his Grappler and anxiously waited for this last life pod to be stowed in the giant ship.  After what seemed an eternity, he finally got the all clear signal.  Gritting his teeth he saw that nearly fifteen minutes had passed.  Quickly rotating the Grappler away from the freighter, he pushed the throttle fully forward, speeding back towards the drifting wrecks.

_Cylon Basestar J529 – Command and Control Center_

       Alexei relaxed as the waves of data washed through and over him.  He and his brothers enjoyed the intimate connection with the collective far more than the other models.  The Twos’, which he was a member of, had long ago discovered that it was far easier to let the current carry you where it will.  The other models were too narrow minded and directed, and they often missed seemingly unrelated facts and clues as they tried to control and narrow the flow of information into neat and abstract digital bundles.  His mind, now one with the powerful sensors and processors on the Basestar, casually bobbed and flowed with the torrent of information which passed all around him.  His consciousness paused for mere nanoseconds, one of his brothers, a Five, assigned as an infiltrator on a Colonial Battlestar had perished during the admittedly lopsided battle.  He rejoiced for his comrade, and offered a short prayer to the one true god; thanking him for his wisdom and faith in his creations.

       Alexei found his consciousness being pulled in a new direction, breathing deeply, he went with the flow.  Countless random data packets swirled around him, most skipping past his consciousness like shooting stars, some drifting away, while a few flashed ephemerally for his attention.   One packet shone more brightly than the others, he reached out to it and serenely captured it.  Turning it gently in his mind he absorbed the information it contained instantly. 

       He found himself examining a cluster of a dozen small ships drifting near a large, capital sized starship.  At first glance, they appeared to be yet another knot of wrecked Colonial vessels. He contemplated discarding the data packet, but instead found himself drawn to the large vessel with the group.  He realized that the large vessel was new.  His curiosity piqued, he began to search the stream around him for additional clues, the process took time, but slowly, he began finding more pieces, finally, a tortuous 15 seconds later, he had the mystery solved.  Previous scans had been periodically checking this clutch of lifeless vessels.  Alexei reviewed the data and quickly observed that just two hours earlier, this same group of ships numbered as high as 25, and he noted, each previous scan all conspicuously lacked the large, unknown starship.  Smiling at his discovery, he gently retreated from the stream.  His mind now focused, he reentered the mainframe of the Basestar, this time interfacing with the communications and tactical arrays.

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

       The single eye at the front of the autonomous fighter strobed as it received instructions from its Basestar.   Instantly the agile attack craft and its three wingmen looped back to join with the approaching troop transport before heading towards the unknown targets designated by their superiors.  Together they would commandeer the ship and take any survivors prisoner for interrogation aboard the Basestar. 

_Bill Thurston 12 – Hold 5_

       His foot tapping with nervous energy, Parah anxiously waited for Marsha to bring in the final four damaged planes.  Looking at the chronometer, he cursed quietly to himself.  If Tony were half the pilot that Marsha was they would already have the hold secured.  They’d been at this for 44 minutes, far longer than he had hoped for when they arrived, and had already recovered 20 life pods.  If luck could hold out a little longer they’d have the final load stowed and would be ready to escape.  Glumly, he thought, escape to where?

       “Braangh” the intercom called out again, interrupting his mental ruminations. 

       “Status check.” Abrasive and curt, Rebecca’s voice conveyed the fear and urgency that came with the knowledge that they were quickly running out of time.

       “Grappler 1 is secured in the starboard hangar.  Marsha is approaching with final load now, 1 life pod, 1 Raptor, and 2 Vipers.”  Checking the screens again, he continued, “Estimate 13 minutes for cargo stowage, five minutes to secure hold for transit, another seven minutes for Marsha to get the Grappler back to the hangar, 25 minutes Skipper.”

       “Too much time, Parah” she replied calmly. With a hint of resignation in her voice she continued, “Have Marsha bring the Grappler into Hold 5 directly, you can secure her towed cargo while she is docking her bird.”

       Closing his eyes in thought, he replied, “That’s not gonna save us much time, she’ll still have to wait for us to bring in the cargo in the arms before she can dock in the hold.  And by that time, she would nearly be back to the hangar bay.”

       “Parah,” an anguished strain in her voice, “have her land with the Viper still in the arms.”   Head bowed down, she waited for his response.

       “Can’t do that Skipper; that’s downright dangerous.  Loaded down like that, that Grappler will be way off balance.  Lords only know the mess we’d have down here.  One slip, she’ll not only kill herself, she’s liable to take out the entire deck crew!” he responded instantly.

       “Frack procedure gods dammit!” she yelled into the phone.  She took a quick breath, before continuing, her voice now deathly serious, “Parah, we have maybe 10 minutes, best case.”

       Parah felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  Reacting to the sudden change in her tone, he responded dubiously, “What’s changed, Rebecca?”

       Rebecca paused a moment, and sighed quietly before answering, “John picked up five new contacts a couple minutes ago, four small craft escorting a larger shuttle sized ship.  They’re heading right at us, and based on their speed and formation, Captain Robinaux believes them to be Cylons.   It looks like they found us.”

       Parah sat at his station in stunned silence.  After a moment, he looked up at the screen in front of him.  Sighing deeply, he toggled the com-line deliberately, “Copy your last, Skipper.”  His shoulders slouching in exhaustion, he took a moment to survey the frantic activity on the cargo deck below him.  He pulled the mic to his lips and activated the com a second time, “I’ll relay your instructions to her, be sure to say a prayer for us.”

       Rebecca looked down into her lap thoughtfully before responding.  She understood what she was asking of her pilot and deck crew.  Rebecca had been a pilot herself, and knew just how dangerous and seemingly suicidal her orders were.  She looked at the DRADIS screen again, her eyes fixed on the five blinking icons.  Their course hadn’t wavered.  She cursed quietly as she watched the five malevolent aircraft that were heading directly towards them; very, very quickly.  She closed her eyes and muttered quietly, “Sometimes you have to roll a hard six.”  She opened her eyes and brought the phone back to her mouth, depressing the mic as she did, “Parah, Marsha is a good damn pilot, she can do this, and regardless we don’t have a choice.  Now tell her to bring in the Grappler with the Viper, and to be quick about it.  That’s all.”

       “Very well, Captain.”  Defeated and with a healthy amount of concern he relayed the orders to the pilot now holding position below the hold.  He didn’t mention the inbound Raiders; he figured the landing would be stressful enough on the young pilot.

       Bright and energetic, Marsha’s voice sang out “Grappler 2 copies, hands on landing Hold 5 with Viper in arms.” Barely a moment passed before she burst out eagerly, “Now this’ll be a trick!”

       Grimacing at her attitude, “Youth over wisdom,” he grumbled, forgetting that the channel to the Grappler and the Bridge was still open. 

       “Don’t worry, Load, I won’t leave a scratch on your pristine deck,” she answered eagerly.     

       Short and aggravated, Rebecca’s reply cut thru like a knife “Marsha, I need you to concentrate on not Fracking this up, clear.” 

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

       The lead Raider held no compassion or misgivings towards the scores of humans that had been so efficiently exterminated earlier this day.  Indeed, the Raiders had been programmed to see humans as a pestilence that must be eliminated as efficiently as possible.  The DRADIS scans became clearer as the hunters closed the gap with the Colonial ships.  The unknown starship had been identified as a civilian shipping vessel, and the smaller craft were marked as damaged military craft.  With determination the lead fighter sped towards the slow lumbering vessels in front of it.  The Cylon’s prey was certainly aware of them, as they had been doggedly dragging the smaller vessels into one of its enormous cargo holds.  The Raider was concerned that the vessel would attempt to get away, its scans could not confirm if the freighter had a Faster-Than-Light drive.  The Raider sent a quick transmission to the squadron, “Increase velocity to maximum and engage immediately upon entering weapons range.”  Less than a second passed before it received a confirmation of the orders from the squadron. 

       Three seconds later, the leader received a message from the Heavy Raider, now falling behind the swift attack craft, “Centurions Active and Ready”.

_Bill Thurston 12 – Hold 5_

       Grappler 2 was holding position below the hold, impatiently waiting as Parah carefully positioned the broken craft so that they were suspended above the deck.  Armed with ladders, cables and lifts, the five crewmen, dressed in pressure suits, feverishly began maneuvering the vessels through the hold.  All hands were racing to clear an opening on the crowded deck for the Grappler and cargo below.

       Parah winced as he watched Marsha begin to bring her Grappler into the hold, while below her the crew was still scrambling to move the cargo to the perimeter of the deck.  His fingers, rapidly tapping the desk, tried to keep time with the fleeting seconds on the chronometer above.  His nerves were frayed, his eyes fixed on the clock, and they were quickly running out of time.  Turning back to the observation window, he watched Marsha carefully guide Grappler 2 towards the deck.  Checking to make sure that she had cleared the Hold’s threshold he determinedly reached over to the console in front of him.  “Frack it,” he said to himself as he flipped the large black toggle which controlled the outer doors.  Dull yellow strobe lights flashed across the hold, and a metallic claxon sounded in his workstation, as well as throughout the ship.  Toggling the mic, he announced, “Attention all hands, Outer Doors Hold 5 closing, repeat Outer Doors Hold 5 closing.”

_Bill Thurston 12 - Bridge_

       The monitors at their duty posts were all but forgotten, every member of the bridge crew watched Grappler 2 with baited breath from the main viewer.  Her left hand in a fist, Rebecca nervously chewed on her knuckle as the now badly unbalanced craft slowly lumbered closer to the deck.  Silently fretting, she knew that one slip of the hand would result in a devastating crash, certainly killing the pilot and likely many more of the deck crew as well.  And now, with the hold closing above her, there would be no second chances, no escape for Marsha if the landing went wrong.  Quashing her inner demons, Rebecca mentally regrouped.  This was her call and Marsha would not crash, she told herself.  She looked at the chronometer.  It was a race against time, and they were losing.  Soon, very soon she thought, the Cylons would be in weapons range, and if the cargo was not secured, or if the Hold’s doors were not closed, then all would be lost.   Grappler 2 was hovering about ten feet above the deck while a tractor carefully removed the wrecked Viper from her forward arms.   “Shit!” she gasped, as she watched the Grappler lurch suddenly to the side, her confidence in the young pilot momentarily dashed. 

       But just as quickly, the craft righted itself; the pilot made a miraculous correction.  The Grappler hung there now, waiting as the terrified deck crew began picking themselves up off of the floor.  Relief flooding through her, Rebecca watched as Marsha brought the now unburdened Grappler to the deck as if it were a routine landing.

       “That’s a hell of a pilot you have there, Captain,” the deep voice of the Colonial warrior called out.

       Still recovering from the near disaster, she turned to him, “Most natural pilot I’ve ever seen.”  She paused for a second, looking at the headset next to him at the Communications console.  “Are you done going through the com records yet?”

       “Yeah,” he replied. Climbing out of the chair, he strode over to the Plotting Table at the back of the bridge.  Arriving just after him, he handed her a printed com report before bending down at the waist.  In a low voice he began, “According to the com messages, the entire fleet has been shattered.  In fact, the Cylons rejected an unconditional surrender from President Adar.  Moments later, they launched a full nuclear attack on Caprica.”

       Stunned, Rebecca stood there, her head hung, all of the color drained from her face.  She slowly lifted her head.  Her deep brown eyes, earlier strident and resolute, were now filled with fear and sorrow.  It took her a moment and all of her courage to weakly croak, “Sagittaron?” 

       “Gone.” He replied softly.  “They started with the capital, and bombed every city after that.” 

       Refusing to accept his report, she shook her head slowly, even as it rested softly on the table.  “That can’t be right,” she whispered; but she knew it was.  She also knew from his voice that there was more.  “What else?” she asked her voice dead and hollow. 

       “The Battlestar Galactica, is confirmed to have survived, and is organizing a counter action at Ragnar.”  Receiving no reaction, he continued tentatively, “I need you to take me there.”

       Looking up now, she fixed directly on his careful gray eyes, measuring them against her own perceptions and prejudices.  She could feel the fire that burned deep start to rekindle within.  “No.  We are going to Sagittaron, your fleet be damned.”

       He was about to argue, hopelessly he knew, when the ship’s P.A. bleated for their attention.

       Parah’s voice called out thru bridge speakers “Attention all hands.  All cargo and Hold Number 5 are secured.  The ship is ready for normal operations.  Repeat, All Cargo and Hold 5 are secured. The ship is ready for normal operations.  That is all.”

       Resuming her post at the center chair, she clicked her seat belt across her lap with one hand as she scrolled through system checklists with the other.  Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat as she checked the DRADIS screen, the incoming craft, almost certainly Cylons, had increased their speed, and were less than a minute out.  “Marel, please confirm that the FTL is spun up!” she called out nervously.

       He turned his head to face her, a light sheen of perspiration could be seen on his forehead, ‘FTL board is green, ma’am, ready to jump at your command,” he answered quickly.

       “Well, let’s not waste anytime then.”  Rebecca looked over at Derek, “Captain, you should find a seat; our ship is not as smooth as your cushy military boats.”   Motioning to Parah’s now vacant bridge station, she waited for the rugged Captain to strap himself in.  Picking up the handset out of the receiver, she quickly called out “Attention. Prepare for immediate FTL Jump.  Mr. Banners, take us to Sagittaron.”

       Derek watched as the young man inserted and turned the translucent key into the console.  Setting his jaw, he closed his eyes and waited for the jump to take them.

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

       The lead attacker reduced its speed and set its weapons to standby.  Emotions in fighters, be they Raiders or Centurions were strongly constrained by their programming, but still, the lead attacker felt something close to disappointment as the civilian starship disappeared in a flash of light, just out of reach.  With a quick blast from their Reaction Control Thrusters, the five ships flipped over as one, quickly returning to their patrol route. 

 


	7. Hurricane Hole

_Archeron Asteroid Belt, Helios Gamma Star System_

       Obscured by gray and black clouds, with flashes of brilliant reds, yellows and oranges, Sagittaron hung across the void from them, pleading for mercy.  Rebecca sat heavily in her chair.  Her home was dying, her family and friends no doubt already dead, and there was nothing she could do about it.  Four Cylon Basestars held station between the planet and her ship, a regular stream of small ships were buzzing between the malevolent leviathans and the sickly planet below.  Studying the Basestars, Rebecca couldn’t help but be caught by their elegant design, two sets of three long arms extended from a central axis, connected by short and graceful neck.  Cursing them in her parent’s tongue, she hung her head in defeat.        

       Sitting quietly in the First Mate’s chair, Derek waited quietly as the shock rolled over the crew of the small bridge.  Feeling distinctly out of place, he watched the activity in Cargo Hold Five pick up as the crew recovered from the FTL Jump.  The listlessness of the bridge finally grating his nerves to the point of exasperation, he stood up and headed to the Nav-Com station.  “Hey Marel, can you page the Nurse to Cargo Hold 5, the deck crew is up and they are going to need her assistance.”

       “What?”  Slack-jawed, Marel looked directly at Derek before turning his attention to Rebecca.  “Uh, Skip?” he asked.                 

       Lifting her head slightly, she fixed Marel with a pained expression, dismissively waving her hand at him, “Yeah, fine” she replied in a tired voice.

       Watching the Captain’s head sink back into her hands, Derek knew someone had to take control.  Physically taking Marel by the shoulders and gently turning him, he looked directly into the Navigator’s eyes.  “Marel, everyone on this ship is depending on you right now, understood?”

       “Uh, yeah.” He muttered quietly, blank eyes staring back.

       Dropping his head momentarily, Derek refocused on the scared young man, “Marel, we need you, now. Can you do this, son?”  He waited for the Officer’s response, prepared to take over the Nav-Com station if necessary. 

       Nodding his head affirmatively, Marel met Derek’s gaze, his eyes hard and serious, “Yes, Sir.”

       “Good.” Derek paused, looking over at Rebecca.  She was watching him now, but still to shell-shocked to effectively command her ship. “Alright, Mr. Banners, I need you to plot a jump to Ragnar Anchorage.” 

       His face twisting in an uncomfortable grimace, Marel actually recoiled at the destination suggested by the refugee.  “Ragnar…” he paused for a second, “No, the Captain already told you that were not meeting up with your fleet there.”  He looked away, and then turned back to the upstart Colonial Warrior, “And that’s that” he added, to bring the matter to a close.

       “Look, dammit,” Derek began, “When the Cylons find us, we will need to leave here, and Ragnar is currently the safest port in the colonies.”  Now looking back to Rebecca, “This is your ship and you are the Captain.  Right now, having a safe port ready to jump to in case of an emergency is the best and most prudent course of action.”  He waited as the Navigator slowly turned to face his Captain.  Closing her eyes, she slowly nodded her assent.

       With all of the bridge crew focused on him, Derek took a step back from the Nav-Com Station.  “Mr. Banners, please relay the com traffic to Parah’s station, then plot the jump.”

       With just a hint of sarcasm Marel responded, “Yes, sir.”

       Walking back to Parah’s station, Derek ignored the three sets of eyes staring at the back of his head.  He really hadn’t wanted to take command, he just needed to ignite a spark.  He had just slipped on the headphones to monitor the com traffic when Rebecca’s caustic voice called out.

       “You’re from Caprica, aren’t you?”  It was more of an accusation.

       Looking at her, a smug smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “Yeah, mostly.”

       “Thought so.  Assholes from the capital always seem to think they own everything,” she replied, looking at him with cold eyes.

       Trying to lighten the mood, Derek responded kiddingly, “Yeah, I guess we do.”

          Rebecca’s eyes never left him, her spine stiffened and her lips pulled back in a tight scowl, “Well as this is my ship.  I think I’ll take over from here. That is, if you’re done bossin’ around my people.”

       “Gladly, Captain.”  Derek started to slip the headset back on.

       “I’ve got the com’s. Why don’t you take yourself over to Hold 5?  I‘m sure they could use an extra set of hands down there.” She directed Derek in a cold and sarcastic tone.

       Confident that Rebecca was back, he stood up to leave.  “Right away, ma’am.”

       “Don’t try that shit with Parah, he’s much more sensitive than I am,”  she offered as Derek left the cabin.  Hearing the hatch close behind him, Rebecca sighed.  Looking over the bridge and the rest of the crew staring at her, she spat out, “Get to work, dammit!  Marel, make sure you have me check your jump calculations before you enter them into the computer.”   Turning away from them, she deliberately picked up the headset and slipped it on.

_Bill Thurston 12 – Cargo Hold 5_

       Parah had unlatched his safety belt and was pushing through the control room and into the cargo bay proper even before the intercom had announced the completion of the jump.  Grabbing a rifle from the safe, he quickly made his way towards the rescued craft.  Marsha was waiting for him in front of the Vipers, hands on her hips, quietly cursing to herself.  The Vipers and the Raptor were horribly mangled, leaving no chance for survivors.  The nose cone of the first Viper had been nearly torn off.  The canopy and dorsal stabilizer were both gone.  Climbing up the ladder Parah blanched as he saw the now headless pilot strapped inside.  The expression on his eyes confirmed to the deck crew what they already knew.  Standing to his full height he waited for the activity on the deck to stop.  With the worker’s attention now on him, he cleared his throat twice.  “Attention, everyone!”  He paused a moment before continuing; “As you all can see, we have a lot of boats to go through here.  Unfortunately, the Vipers and Raptor are both losses, so we are going to start with the life pods.  Begin with the ones in the best condition, and we are going to do one at a time.”  He paused as he watched Nurse Harris come into the Cargo Hold.  “Swenson and Park, I need you guys to pop these cans open, Roberts and Alcalah, you two are going to assist Nurse Harris with the refugees.”  Turning his head to an olive skinned man of average height, “Campara, you are going to record names, dates of birth, and homeports for each person we bring out.  Micheals and Booeth,” he paused again looking for the two deckhands, “you two are assisting me with security.  Now, let’s get this set up.” 

       Passing through the hatch, Derek could see the deck crew busily working at one of the life pods on the far side of the cargo hold.  Parah and a second crewman, both armed with rifles, stood at the square airlock, while Nurse Harris and the others checked on the crew inside.   In the forward section, a small group of people milled around, standing or sitting on the floor.  Derek set his jaw as he approached the bullet shaped life pod.  Its entire surface was streaked with black marks.  Small burnt out pits pock marked the bow of the ship.  He had just arrived when Nurse Harris came out of the hatch.

       Tired and withdrawn, Spera shook her head as she reported to Parah outside.  “That’s another fifteen Chief, asphyxiation and exposure.”

       “Damn.” Turning to Derek as he approached, “What can I do for you, Captain?” 

       “I’m here to lend a hand, Chief.  Captain wanted me off the bridge.”

       Chuckling slightly with a knowing smile, Parah looked up at Derek, “Right.”  He paused, turning towards the cluster of people gathered at the far wall, he pointed at the crewman with them.  “Go help out Campara over there.”  Now looking at Derek, “He’s organizing the survivors.” 

       Nodding, Derek headed towards the loosely organized group of people.  Mike Campara stood in the middle, clipboard in hand as he talked to one of the survivors, a young enlisted crewman.  “Excuse me, Mike?” He paused for a second, waiting for the stout crewman to turn to him.  “Parah sent me over to help out. You got an extra clipboard?”

       “Yeah, over there,” he pointed to a desk along the wall.

       Returning with the clipboard, Derek went back to Mike, “Okay, so who needs to be interviewed still?”

       Holding still, he scanned the crowd back and forth, “Well, let’s see, I’ve talked to most of the folks here already, only about 6 left I think, maybe a couple more.”

       “Got it.”  Derek sighed inwardly, “Okay everyone.  If you have already talked to Mr. Campara here, please move to the wall over there by the desk.  If you haven’t been interviewed yet, remain where you are and either he or I will be with you shortly.”  Derek waited for the people to organize themselves.  Surveying the crowd, Derek observed that the survivors were mostly uninjured, but clearly in shock. Scratching his head, he watched the majority of them congregate near the desk.  Turning back to the remaining group, he began looking for an officer amongst them.  Scanning the crowd several times and finding none, he walked up to an enlisted man sitting on the deck.  Thin and pale,with dull brown hair and sullen blue eyes, Derek squatted next to the young man.  “Are you injured?” he asked, attempting to make eye contact.

       “No.” the man said, without turning his head.

       “What ship were you on?”

       Turning his head to face Derek, he answered quietly, “Battlestar Promptus, BSG 113.”           

       “That’s a Valkyrie class, correct?”  Derek waited for the man to nod in assent. “I also need your name, rank, position on ship, home colony and date of birth.”  The interview only took a couple minutes, but sensing that the young man needed to unburden himself, Derek let him talk. 

       Airman John Taylor was a local boy, born and raised on Libra.  He had always dreamed of joining the fleet and becoming a proud warrior defending the colonies.  Unfortunately, poor grades and brushes with the law had prevented him from becoming an officer.  Despite his position, he and his sweetheart were both proud the day he got his commission and posting as a cook on the Battlestar.  The Promptus had been undergoing a refit at the Libran Shipyards when the attack began.  Rushed into service, the ship had been one of the first on scene and had set the initial picket at the Ouranos Belt.  It was a short battle and the crew man didn’t know much, only that within just a few minutes there had been several explosions, and then the Commander had ordered all non-essential personnel to evacuate.  The pod had shot out of the Battlestar, racing towards Virgon when it was severely buffeted several times before suddenly going dark.  “No instruments, no power, drifting, we knew we only had a couple hours of Oxygen.” 

       Patting the grieving man on the shoulder, quietly Derek assured him, “You’re all right now son, we got you.”  Helping the man stand up, Derek walked him towards the other survivors, stopping when he reached the wall.  Derek watched the man slump to the deck in a pile. 

       A young woman, also enlisted, sat next to John, rubbing his shoulders, consoling him.  She looked up at Derek, a pained expression on her face, “He just got engaged, this morning in fact.  His family was celebrating at his mother’s house in Sage.”

       Grimacing, Derek stood there for a second, “Lot of that today.  I’m sorry.”  He started to leave, but stopped, catching the young woman’s attention, “Were there any officers in your life pod?”

       Shaking her head, “No, the officers were needed on the ship.  Enlisted and a few civilians only.”

       Derek was interviewing a haggard woman, a specialist in the Quartermaster department, when he heard people shouting from across the Cargo Hold.  Looking over, three of the Thurston’s crewmen were pointing their rifles at a group of survivors coming out of an airlock.    Checking to make sure that he had the woman’s information, he dismissed her to join the other survivors at the far wall.  Waving his hand he called out to his makeshift crew-mate, “Mike, I’ll be back in a minute.”  Not waiting for a response he strode towards the commotion.

       With the barrel of his handgun leveled at Parah’s head, the refugee’s shock black and greasy hair matched the maniacal glint in his eyes.  “I’m not taking orders from you gods-dammit! We’re at war, and I am commandeering this ship for the Colonial Fleet! Now lower your weapons and then you can take me to the bridge.”

       “For the last time…  Put your gun down, or so help me, I will put you on your back!”  Parah’s voice boomed across the hold.

       The young man’s face contorted in anger, “No, you listen to me! There is a war on, now shut the frack up and take me to the bridge!”

       Derek was now jogging to the life pod.  Stepping next to Parah, he pulled his dog tags up, which had been hanging on his neck.  Holding it for the bewildered soldier to see he barked, “Stand down, Specialist!” 

       “Who the frack are you?!”  He yelled, wildly swinging his weapon towards Derek.        

       Stepping forward, Derek walked right up to the man, the gun pushing against his chest.  Looking down at the smaller soldier, he shoved his I.D. in the young man’s face.  “Derek Robinaux, Captain, Colonial Defense Forces!  Lower your gods-damned gun now!”  His left hand slapping down, he knocked the weapon from the specialist’s hands a moment later.  Derek didn’t look at the gun.  He waited, and finally the young man looked up at him Derek met his panicked eyes with a steeled gaze of calm.  “Deep breaths son, take three deep breaths.”  Derek waited, and then took a step back after watching the soldier visibly relax.

       “Sir?”  A quiet voice snuck in from his left. “Here’s his gun.” Nurse Harris was standing behind Derek.  The pistol was shaking in her outstretched hand.

       “Thanks, Spera,” he said, quietly taking the gun from her.  Quickly unloading the weapon and clearing the chamber, he handed the weapon to Parah.  Turning back to the Specialist, he cautiously stuck out his hand towards the kid.  “What’s your name, son?”  He asked as the soldier cautiously took his hand.

       “Tom Donnellson, sir,” his eyes darting about, trying to take in his new surroundings.  “Where are we sir?” he asked, his voice now tired and meek.

       “You’re on a commercial freighter, and amongst friends.”  Looking over the other refugees from his life pod, a strikingly tall dark skinned woman stood out.  She was wearing the light gray uniform with powder blue accents of the company that was the primary contractor which had been upgrading the fleet’s computer systems.  Waving for her attention, Derek called out to her, “Ms., would you come with me and Mr. Donnellson please?”

       Stepping forward, she extended her hand towards Derek.  “Dr. Jean Wilker, Integral Systems Engineering.”  She looked briefly at the soldier next to her, and then returned her gaze to Derek.  “Thank you for saving us, Captain.”

       “Thank him and her.”  Derek replied, pointing to Parah and then Marsha.  “They dragged me out of the black, too.”

       Jean turned to Parah, earnestly taking his hand and then Marsha’s in her own, before introducing herself and thanking them again.

       “I’m glad we could help,” Parah answered stiffly.  “Now if you would all follow Captain Robinaux, he and Mr. Campara can get you processed.  We’ll try to get you some food and drink while we figure out berthing arrangements.”

       Taking his cue, Derek addressed the new group of refugees, waving his arm in a slow circle.  “If you will all come with me, we’ll get everyone sorted out.”  He waited a few moments as the refugees gathered behind him.

       Dr. Wilker stayed at his side as he led the group.  “So how did you end up on this boat, Captain?”

       “My Viper crapped out in the middle of the fight.” He paused a moment.  “We were about to engage a squadron of Raiders when the Basestar launched a volley of missiles.  I hit the throttle to bug out, and my plane just turned off.”   He shook his head quickly, “I don’t know how better to explain it then that, I mean, it literally just turned off.”

       Jean grabbed his arm, stopping him, and then looked him straight in the eye.  Leaning in to him, she looked to the side first, and in a quiet voice she began, “Same thing happened to the Promptus, we had just engaged the Cylons when ship systems began to crash.  Before we knew it, before I could stop it, the whole damn ship just shut off.  Thank the gods the Commander had already ordered the partial evacuation.” She looked down for a moment, letting go of Derek as a wave of guilt washed over her, “I probably should have stayed with the ship, but, I knew there was no way I would be able to get the computers running again.”  Sniffling, she continued, “So…  I jumped on the first life pod I saw,” she confessed.

       Derek took her by the shoulders, “Look at me.”  Her eyes now soft and vulnerable, “You did the right thing and I’m glad you’re alive.  Maybe with your help, when we meet up with the Galactica, we can figure out what happened, and be ready for the next round.”

       Brightening at the mention of the famous warship, and with a little awe in her voice, “The Galactica survived?” she whispered.  With a glimmer of hope in her step, she turned back to the herd of refugees who had passed them resuming their path towards her rescued crew mates.


	8. Safe Harbor

_Bill Thurston 12 – Bridge_

Rebecca sat quietly on the bridge considering her next move.  They had been hiding undetected in the asteroid belt for almost an hour, but that would change soon.  Seething in anger, she fruitlessly searched for any way to reach her home.  Shifting in her seat, she held her head as if in pain.  She desperately wanted to go to Sagittaron.  She knew there were survivors, and she would cram every last one that she could on board.  But there was no way her ship, ‘an unarmed cow’, as Parah had described it, could make the trip and survive, she thought bitterly.  Patrols of Cylon Raiders were already getting too close for comfort.  Grudgingly, she admitted that she was out of options, and that it was time to go.  Grabbing the phone’s receiver at her chair, she depressed the buttons to connect her with Cargo Hold Five.

        A gruff voice answered immediately, “Hold Five, Gammons.”

        “What’s your status, Parah?” she asked curtly.

        “We are all set here, Captain.”  He paused a moment, “All life pods and refugees have been secured.”

        “What was the final count?”  She waited, hoping for some good news.

        “Including Captain Robinaux, we recovered 21 life pods, three Vipers, and one Raptor.  We were able to pick up 180 survivors and 139 victims for a total of 319 souls.” 

        She closed her eyes briefly as she absorbed the number of dead.  Quietly, she replied, “I was hoping there would be more survivors.”

        “Yeah we all were.” He paused a moment, “Most of the life pods were damaged.  They mostly died of exposure.  Gods willing, it was quick.”

        Suppressing a shudder she quietly recited, “So say we all.”  Looking at the DRADIS screen, she brought the receiver back to her mouth.  “Parah, we’ve done all we can do here.  Please finish prepping the hold for an FTL jump.  Then bring Captain Robinaux to the bridge, it’s time to find the Galactica.”

        Rebecca had just finished confirming the engine status with the Chief Engineer when Parah and Derek passed through the bridge’s hatch.  She waited as they strapped themselves into the available chairs.  Parah quickly reviewed the monitor at his station.

        Turning away from his monitor, Parah looked directly at Rebecca. “Ship is secured and ready for Faster than Light Jump at your discretion, Captain.”

        She deliberately nodded her head once in acknowledgment.  “Thank you,” she replied.  She took one last long look at her home planet.  “Mr. Evans, be sure that we have a still of Sagittaron.   I have a feeling, it’s going to be a while before we see our home again,” she directed her helmsman somberly.  She waited for his acknowledgement before picking up the phone.  She depressed the top button, holding the receiver in front of her.  “Attention all personnel, it’s time we left.  Prepare for immediate FTL Jump, and Gods willing, we will meet up with some friendly faces at our next stop.”

_Raptor 307 - Ragnar, just inside outer atmosphere._

The electromagnetic radiation, which rolled and tumbled through the atmosphere of the gas giant Ragnar, provided the perfect cover for the Colonial Raptor and the two accompanying Mark II Vipers.  Lt. Margaret “Racetrack” Edmondson glanced briefly at the clear DRADIS screen below the large canopy of her scout craft.  Seeing no change in the readings, she turned her attention back to the collection of photographs that she had brought with her.  She began weeping quietly, as she flipped to a picture of her family taken months earlier at a resort on Canceron.  That was the last time she had seen her parents and sisters.  She smiled tightly, recalling the surf crashing over her and Michelle in the emerald green waters.

        “Hey did you see that flash?” One of the marines seated behind her called out.

Her breath caught in shock, she stared at the blinking contact on her DRADIS screen.  She snapped her head up, frantically searching for the contact at her 9:00 High.  “Skulls! What do we got out there?!” she cried out anxiously to her E.S.O. seated at the back of the ship.

        The tension palpable in his voice, Lt. Hamish “Skulls” McCall quickly responded, “DRADIS contact.  235 carom 42.  Range is 410,000 kilometers and decreasing, bogey has a constant velocity of 500 km per second.”  Carefully refining the controls on the ship’s scanners, he continued his report. “I’m not detecting Transponder Codes, DRADIS scan matches configuration for a Class-J. Inter-System Freighter.”

        She quickly scanned the sensor readings on one of the smaller screens to her right.  Activating her com systems, which were being augmented by a cabled transmitter buoy deployed behind her Raptor, she began her report.   “Racetrack to Actual, a Class-J freighter just jumped in system and is approaching.  Sending data packet now.”

        Colonel Tigh’s sharp and bitter voice barked in response a few moments later, “This is the X.O.  Racetrack, visually confirm identity of ship and crew, escort freighter to anchorage if confirm friendly.”  There was a brief pause before he continued, now with a cold edge, “You are authorized to eliminate that ship if it poses a threat.”

        Swallowing a small amount of bile in her mouth, she responded; “Aye Sir.  Confirm ship and crew ID, escort to Anchorage if verified, eliminate bogey as hostile if poses threat.”

        “Roger that, good hunting Lieutenant,” the Colonel responded before closing the transmission.

        Toggling her com system again, she radioed the Vipers hiding in the upper atmosphere with her.  “Duck, Red Wing, I am bringing up main power now.  Time to meet our guests.”  Flipping a switch next to the wireless system, she activated the winch to reel in the communication buoy. 

        Duck’s voice called out, “Roger that, Racetrack, fall in behind Redwing and me.”  She watched the two tri-engine fighters pull into open space.  Her board showing green, she pushed her throttle forward and quickly slid into formation behind and below the escorting fighters.

_Bill Thurston 12- Bridge_

        Rebecca shrugged off the effects of the FTL Jump, “Report!” she bellowed in Marel’s general direction.  Tapping her fingers against the arm rest on her chair, she impatiently waited for the DRADIS and Navigation sensors to come online.   She relaxed as the screens blinked off and then on, the ship’s position appearing on the navigation screen followed by a clear DRADIS scan a few moments later.        

        Checking his screens, Marel answered “Jump complete, we are on course towards Ragnar Anchorage, DRADIS is clear.”

        “Very good, maintain course and speed, Mr. Evans,” she said to the helmsman.  Watching her monitor, she tried to relax.  Giving up, she turned to Derek, “So where are your friends, Captain?” 

        Thinking for a moment, “They are probably docked at the station; there should be a recon team hiding in the upper atmosphere.” He paused a moment before continuing, “Unless they have already left.”

        Shaking her head, Rebecca answered back, “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”   Standing up, she began making her way to the plotting table in the back.  “Parah, Marel, Derek, we need options.”

        Derek was just arriving at the station when the Helmsman called out, “DRADIS contact, three small craft on an intercept course.  They’re coming in fast, Captain!”  He watched the others turn and run to their stations, he elected to stay at the plotting table.

        “Marel, plot a jump anywhere now! John get ready to bring the engines to full power.  The overhead speakers crackled to life just as Rebecca finished strapping herself into her seat.

        “Unknown Vessel!  This is Colonial Defense Forces Raptor 307.  Power down your engines and identify yourselves immediately.”  There was a brief pause, before the young woman’s voice returned, “I am authorized to fire on your vessel if you do not comply. Respond immediately on this channel.”

        “Marel!  Turn on the transponders now and then open a channel to that Raptor,” she called out in a rush.

_Raptor 307_

        “She’s squawking recognition codes!” Skulls called out from his station.  “We are receiving a wireless transmission from the freighter.”

        A woman’s voice erupted over the speakers in the Raptor.  “Freighter Bill Thurston 12 to Raptor 307, we are friendly, repeat we are friendly.  Do not fire.” 

        “I guess we got their attention,” one of the marines joked from behind.

        Racetrack shook her head with a combination of relief and amusement at the Marine’s comment.  Mostly stifling a laugh, she flipped on her com system “Raptor 307 to Bill Thurston 12, please verify licensed Commanding Officer, Registry Number, homeport, and your last port of record.” 

        “Raptor 307, this is the Commanding Officer, Captain Rebecca Davenport, Registry number Robert-4-Kappa-Charlie-Delta-7-5-Alpha. This ship and crew are based out of Tawa, Sagittaron.  Our last port of record was Promethea, Aerilon.”

        She waited as Skulls verified that the freighter Captain’s report matched the registry files associated with the transponder codes being transmitted by the ship.  “How we doing Skulls?” she asked.

        “Good so far, codes check out,” he answered easily.

        Racetrack watched her DRADIS screen as she rushed towards the rapidly decelerating freighter.  A feeling of relief washed over her as she monitored the freighter’s engines throttle down to idle speed.  Scanning through the canopy, it only took her a few seconds to pick up the freighter flying above them.  “Raptor 307 to Bill Thurston 12, do you have a shorter designation I can use, your full name is a mouth full.”

        “That’s an affirmative.  We go by BT-12.” 

        Racetrack absently listened to the Marines talking behind her as she began her approach to the massive star ship.  The two Vipers ahead of her were set up to pass on either side of the vessel, while she was on a course which would take her just above the dorsum of the ship. 

        The woman’s voice, distorted and static-filled returned, “You don’t happen to be attached to the Galactica, do you?” she asked.

        Caught by surprise, Racetrack responded “Affirmative BT-12.  Did the President’s people relay our location to you?” 

        “That’s a negative,” with a slight lift in her voice she continued, “but I am glad to hear that President Adar survived.”

        Her stomach turned slightly at the ship Captain’s response.  She wondered how many people knew they were here, and how long until the Cylons found them?  She refocused her attention on flying as the Vipers broke to either side of the freighter.  Activating her cameras, she pulled up slightly on the stick, her Raptor skimming a scant 10 meters over the ship’s long dorsal surface.  Bringing her plane over the conning tower, she continued past the ship, riding above the now dark main engines for a few hundred kilometers before regrouping with the waiting Vipers.

        “Duck to Racetrack, starboard pass complete, no damage visible, ship markings match those in the registry.” 

        “Red-Wing here, same for port side, everything is up to specs.” He called out. 

        “Copy that guys, dorsal pass looked good as well.”  Checking her DRADIS one more time, she watched as the freighter continued to slowly drift towards the station ahead.  Turning around in her seat, she addressed her E.S.O. “Well, Skulls, any last-minute concerns?”

        “No.”  He continued to study the data scrolling across his screen, “Scanners are showing that she is running a little heavy, but all other scans are within expectations.”

        Grunting in acknowledgement, she turned to the Marine sitting in the co-pilot seat next to her.  “Well Lieutenant, your show now.”

        His black BDU’s creaking as he turned, his lips curling in a smile, Terry Burrel, firmly clasped his gloved hands together.  “Hoo-Rah,” he said quietly.  Quickly undoing his seat straps, the stocky man stood up and made his way to the center of the ship.  “Marines!” his voice boomed in the small area, “Gear up!”

        Chuckling slightly, Racetrack spun her craft around and began slowly approaching the commercial freighter.  Scanning the schematics of the ship, she easily found her preferred airlock.  “Raptor 307 to BT-12.  Bring your vessel to a complete stop and prepare to receive an inspection team.  Please have your ship’s manifest ready and a complete list of all crew and passengers available for review.”

        Racetrack quickly confirmed the Vipers position behind the BT-12 as she watched the numerous reaction control thrusters’ fire along the bow of the freighter, slowly bringing the massive ship to a stop. 

        “This is BT-12, we are reading all stop and are prepared to meet with your inspection team,” Captain Davenport announced.  Her tone slightly cautious, “Be advised we recovered survivors from the battle at Virgon, some require medical attention.”

        Concentrating on the symbols in her Heads-Up-Display, Racetrack carefully brought her Raptor above the Conning Tower of the now motionless ship.  “Copy that BT-12, we are approaching Airlock C.T.-3.”  Bringing her craft to a stop, she flipped a switch above her head.  The Raptor shuddered slightly in response.  Looking at a screen in front of her, she confirmed for the flight recorder, “Ventral outer door open, extending docking tube.”  She flipped another switch and waited, a few seconds later the Raptor jerked slightly as it contacted the larger ship below.  Eyes still on the screen in front of her, she droned “Confirm mag-lock with external hatch.”  Reaching up again, she activated the third and final switch.  A low hum could be heard and felt through the Raptor as the airlock automatically connected with the vessel below.  After a few seconds, this sound went away, and a green light lit up on Racetrack’s display.  “Confirm hard seal, docking tube is pressurized.”

_Bill Thurston 12 – Airlock CT-3_

        Rebecca stood in front of Parah and Derek in the corridor just outside of the compartment which housed the airlock.  Mike Campara stood off to the side, monitoring the controls for the airlock.  A dull thump and the whirring of gears could be heard through the heavy hatch.  After a few moments, a red light on the wall screen turned green.  Turning his head to the Captain, “We have a hard seal with the Raptor’s docking tube,” he reported.

        With nervous anticipation, she responded, “Very well, open the outer latch, unlock inner door after confirming positive pressure.” 

        The sounds of unlocking gears reverberated through the corridor, and were quickly followed by the whine of an electric motor.   Moments later, the locking wheel at the center of the inner door screeched as it spun counter-clockwise.  The inner hatch suddenly dropped open, swinging down into the compartment on a heavy hinge.  Two thick black cables dropped out of the airlock, immediately followed by two heavily armored marines sliding down in a blur.  Weapons drawn, they easily landed on their feet and moved aside for the next two marines following them.  They each scanned the compartment quickly setting their gazes through the window in the hatch leading to the main compartment.  Seemingly satisfied, the black clad marine nearest the hatch lifted his head towards the opening, reporting back to the Raptor using his chin mounted radio. 

        A set of black clad legs emerged from above, and within moments, a fifth marine began carefully climbing down the ladder which stretched from the deck to the rim of the airlock.  Upon reaching the deck, the four subordinate marines fell in two lines behind him.  Together, they confidently walked to the hatchway. 

        With a glance, Rebecca signaled to Mike to open the hatch into the airlock compartment.  Without thinking, she came to attention as the door swung inward towards them.  The platoon leader strode through the gate, quickly coming to attention and snapping a quick salute to the civilian Captain. 

        “Lt. Terry Burrel, Colonial Marine Corp, Battlestar Galactica.  Permission to come aboard?” 

        Looking up at the warrior, it was hard not be awed by his size.  He was a little over six feet tall, nearly as tall as Derek, but whereas the Captain was lean, this man was massive.  “Permission granted,” she answered nervously.  She composed herself before continuing, “I am the C.O. Rebecca Davenport, and this is my Chief Mate, Parah Gammons.”  She shook his offered hand “It’s good to see friendly faces.”

        He shook Parah’s hand quickly and then looked at Derek, his expression indicating that he was trying to figure out the third man’s role. 

        Still wearing a civilian work-suit Derek stepped forward, “Captain Derek Robinaux, Colonial Forces, attached to the Cruiser Odin.”  Surprise rippled across the marine’s face as he took in the man addressing him.  The marine platoon instantly came to attention, their right hands snapping to their foreheads in unison.  “At ease.”  He waited for them to relax to parade rest then lightly replied, “Uniform is in the laundry.” Shock apparent on their faces, Derek watched as the Platoon Leader shook his head briefly in disbelief.      

        With a broad grin stretching across his face, the Lieutenant pressed the com button near his throat, opening a channel to the Raptor attached above.  “Gunny to Racetrack, contact with command crew successful, we are proceeding with inspection.”  Pausing as he handed Derek’s I.D. card back to him, he continued, “Confirm CDF warriors on board.”  Turning to Rebecca and motioning with his free hand, he easily requested, “If you’ll lead the way Captain.”

        Derek fell in line next to the Lieutenant as they made their way to the bridge.  He followed Lt. Burrel through the hatch.  The rest of the marines remained outside, filling the narrow corridor.  Derek was only half paying attention as Rebecca handed the bear-like soldier a thick manila folder and a small computer disk.  They only spent a couple moments in the bridge before heading back into the corridor.  He listened guardedly as Rebecca explained their trials to the Lieutenant.

        “We have the survivors set up in Cargo Hold Five, we’re headed there now.  We only have one nurse on board.  Ms. Harris has been treating them as best she can.  Fortunately, most of the survivors have only minor injuries,” she finished. 

        Nodding his head in understanding, “You said you recovered 139 deceased.  Where are they?” he asked.

        Turning her head to the Lieutenant, “They’re in Hold Five as well,” she answered.

        Taking the opportunity to relax, Derek mindlessly followed the small group as they made their way towards the hold at the bottom of the ship.  The marines spent less than ten minutes surveying the large space.  In that time, the seasoned Lieutenant had assessed the types and severity of damage to the recovered craft, the number and condition of the refugees, and lastly the dead, carefully arranged in columns filling the aft quarter of the hold.

        The inspection over, Derek walked with Rebecca and Parah as they escorted the marines back to the airlock.  Waiting for them there, Marel and one of the Raptor pilots quickly finished their conversation.  Turning towards them, an imposing dark-skinned officer approached.  Stopping in front of Rebecca, “Captain Davenport?” he asked, extending his hand to her.

        She took his hand in easily responded, “Yes.”  With her free hand she motioned at the satchel tucked under his left arm, “Something for me?” she asked.

        He handed her the packet and replied, “Yes ma’am.  These navigation charts detail the course you need to follow to anchor at Ragnar Station.” 

        Handing the packet to Marel, she looked back at the pilot, “Thank you.”

        With a serious air, he looked directly at the captain, “You will need to follow these instructions exactly.  We will lead you in of course, but maintaining visual contact in the storm is difficult.  We cast off in five mikes.”

        She handed the packet to Marel, annoyed at his implication.  She fixed the young pilot with a hard glare, “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to navigate a tight corridor, Lieutenant.  In fact, I was piloting supply ships down this very passage while you were still trying to figure out how to get to second base in high school.”  Holding her scowl fast, she smiled inwardly as the officer’s face recoiled at her outburst.  

        With a bit of hesitation in his voice, the scolded pilot replied cautiously “Very good.  We will see you at the station then.”  Lt. McCall took a step back and motioned for the Marines to return to the Raptor.  He watched the five soldiers quickly climb up the ladder and disappear through the hatch.  Turning to Rebecca, he nodded quickly.  Spinning back on his heel, he grabbed the rungs and raced back to the safety of his plane.

        Struggling to contain herself, Rebecca guffawed loudly as the inner hatch closed behind the Raptor E.S.O.  “Did you see the look on that asshole’s face?” she exclaimed.

        Chuckling with her briefly, Marel nervously shifted his gaze to the floor. “So, uh, getting to the station is gonna be a breeze, right, Skip?”

        Rebecca’s smile vanished at that.  Her expression becoming stoic, she replied soberly, “No, Marel.  Docking at this station is a fracking nightmare.”  Fearing his nerves were about to give out, she slapped him firmly on his butt. To reassure him she bragged, “Don’t worry.  I’ve docked here at least a dozen times, never had a problem, not once.” 

        She didn’t dare tell him the truth.  In fact, she had only been to this station one time before.  Her course had been slightly off from the beginning, and as the minor navigation mistakes compounded, she missed a turn.  Blinded by radiation while being violently buffeted by the electromagnetic currents which boiled through the atmosphere, her ship was lost in the storm.  Acting on instinct alone, she guessed at which direction to go.  Terrified, she slammed the throttle fully open and by the grace of the gods, she shot back into the corridor.  Everyone on the ship should have died that day.   Her C.O. even told her so, as he poured the first of many ambrosia shots that they drank that night.


	9. Washing Ashore

_Bill Thurston 12- Bridge_

        The sky was a kaleidoscope of green, white and gray clouds continuously rolling and crashing together.  Enthralled with the view through the windows, Derek stared as another finger of lightning charged across the horizon in front of them.  He leaned on the table as the ship was moderately shaken yet again by the angry winds which had been incessantly pummeling the enormous freighter. 

        “Thirty seconds ‘til final turn” the navigator’s voice called. “Set course 45 carom 294, maintain speed at 100.”

        Derek’s eyes focused through the plate glass windows, searching for the Raptor that had been leading them through the storm.  Squinting, he was just able to pick up the black shadow turning away, a mere 1,500 meters ahead of them.

        “Execute turn on my signal.  3…2…1…Now.” Marel called out to the helmsman sitting next to him.

        Derek could feel the engines flare as they fought against the inertia of their previous course.  The ship shook suddenly as if caught in the fist of an angry child.  His arms stabbing out, Derek grabbed the edge of the table tightly to maintain his balance.  Their path smoothed as the wave passed and it seemed as if the ship herself breathed out in relief.

        “Turn complete, course now 45 carom 294; Ragnar Anchorage dead ahead,” reported the stoic helmsman.    

        Derek observed Marel, quietly gauging the mettle of the young man.  Constantly on edge, Derek had watched with concern as the navigator had practically dived under his console during the previous wave.  Picking himself up, Marel’s fingers flew across his console as he examined their course.  “Confirm turn complete, Ragnar Station is six kilometers directly ahead.   Helm, reduce speed to 50, our E.T.A. is 8.3 minutes.”

        A slight vibration traveled through the soles of his boots as the forward engines fired, gently slowing the lumbering giant.  He continued to stare out the front canopy, patiently waiting for the space station to emerge through the swirling clouds.  He focused on the Raptor in front of them as it bobbed in and out of view thru the storm.   Then, out of nowhere, an indistinct shadow appeared, instantly resolving into a massive, spinning space station. 

        Derek turned at the sound of the helmsman gasping as he took in the sight of the fortress.  It had been one of the Colonials’ best kept secrets during the war.  Hidden in the atmosphere of the planet, this station had anchored the Colonial Defense Forces, secretly funneling warriors and supplies to the front for action and back to their homes for rest and repair.  Built at a massive scale, the station was in the shape of a child’s top with three colossal rings attached to the upper half of a long central cylinder.  The station had at one time retained three legions of marines and had been capable of provisioning an entire Battlestar Group for an extended deployment.  Abandoned and forgotten by the children of those whom had built it, Derek wondered what, if anything, the station had for the Colonials, who were once again in desperate need.

        Jumping at the suddenness of Rebecca’s voice, Derek casually listened to her report.  “Attention all hands, we have arrived at Ragnar Station.  All stations secure ship for docking procedures.”  She paused a moment as she monitored the crew’s activities.  “Marel, open a channel to Ragnar Station.”

        A gaggle of spaceships, too numerous to count, were clustered around the station.  The largest of these, a Colonial Battlestar, was moored on the far side of the top docking ring.  Stepping forward to the windows he searched the growing ships again and again.  A deep fear began to freeze in his core. 

        Picking up on his unease, Rebecca joined him at the forward windows.  “What is it?” she asked quietly.

        “They’re all civilians,” he responded quietly.   

        Rebecca looked again.  She started with the Battlestar and then carefully scanned the fleet of vessels in front of them.  Shaking her head, she surveyed the ships a second time.  She turned to Derek, “That can’t be right,” she stated quietly.

        “Captain,” Marel addressed her, “I have the Battlestar Galactica on the line.”

        Discontinuing her survey of the ships gathered around the station, Rebecca picked up the phone.  “Bill Thurston 12 to Battlestar Galactica, requesting permission to dock at Ragnar Station.”

        A man’s voice, heavily distorted by the electromagnetic interference in the atmosphere, immediately responded.  “This is Galactica Control; you are directed to dock with Ragnar Station, dorsal berthing ring, mooring number Two.  A security detail will be waiting for you at Airlock Number One.”

        “Copy that Galactica Control, docking at Dorsal Berthing Ring, Mooring Number Two.”  She put the phone down.  Turning to the computer at her side, she quickly brought up the schematics for the station provided to her by the Raptor crew.  “Mr. Evans, take us in,” she ordered.

        Derek watched the station grow ever larger through the forward canopy as the freighter approached the space station.  The crew was on edge.  The corridor to the station had been harrowing, and the now-constant buffeting upon the ship made their advance that much more unsettling.  Coming to a complete stop at the berthing arm next to the Galactica, the BT-12 began to pivot away, slowly turning and bringing its port side towards the dorsal ring.  Relying solely on instruments, Derek nervously watched the screen as the young helmsman called out the shrinking distance to Ragnar Station. Reaching out for support, Derek quickly grabbed the table in front of him as a great vibration suddenly reverberated through the ship. 

        “Contact,” called out the helmsman.  His fingers flying over his station, he quickly began his report.  “Mooring cables attached.”  He paused a moment, confirming the status on his screen, “Auxiliary power and life support cables attached, extending docking tubes and collars.  Engines to standby-life support mode.”  He paused a couple more moments, his fingers continuing to dance across his station, “Confirm hard-seal Airlocks 1 thru 5.”  Turning to face his Captain, his brow was shining with sweat and he had a satisfied grin just barely visible, “Captain, we have successfully docked with Ragnar Anchorage.”

        Trying not to look relieved, Rebecca easily responded, “Good job, Mr. Evans.”  Now turning her attention to Parah and then Derek, “Parah, Captain, let’s make our way to Airlock One.”  Standing up, she turned to the Navigator, “Marel, you have the con.”  Not waiting for a response, she quickly led the three through the hatch at the back of the compartment.

        A mixed group of officers, marines, and medical personnel waited for Rebecca at the airlock.  Standing in the front, wearing black clad and heavily- armed marines to either side stood two officers.  The two officers were a study in contrasts.  Dressed in the navy blue of the Colonial Fleet and standing almost uncomfortably at rigid attention, the younger officer waited motionlessly, towering over the old grizzled doctor standing to his left.  With a seemingly permanent scowl on his face, the doctor rocked back forth slightly with impatience, the stethoscope hanging from his neck bouncing lightly off of his tattered and stained white lab coat. 

        The brown-haired officer’s eyes met Rebecca’s, “Captain Aaron Kelly, permission to come aboard.” 

     “Permission granted.  I’m Rebecca Davenport, C.O.,” she responded automatically. She turned to her companions and then gestured to each, “My first mate Parah Gammons and this is Captain Robinaux, C.D.F.”

        Derek watched the younger officer turn towards him, “You’re the officer from the Odin,” he stated.

        Extending his hand towards the officer, Derek, shook it firmly before replying, “Yes, I’m afraid I am the sole survivor.” 

        Captain Kelly nodded his head, silently acknowledging his colleague’s loss.  “Commander Adama is expecting you.”  He paused, indicating one of the marine’s attending the group, “Private Dansen will take you to him now.”

        “Very well,” Derek answered the younger Captain.  Turning to Rebecca and Parah, he braced in attention.  His eyes boring into theirs, he sharply clicked his heels together, his hand snapping in a crisp salute as he did.  He waited as they came to attention.  Rebecca deliberately brought her hand up matching his salute.  She held the pose and his gaze momentarily before slowly dropping her hand to her side.  Relaxing his posture as she did, he extended his hand to her and then to Parah, shaking them both.  “Thank you.” 

        Caught in the moment, Rebecca composed herself before coarsely responding, “You’re welcome Captain, and thank you for your help.”

        Turning to the young marine behind him, “If you’re ready Private, please take me to Commander Adama.”

        “Yes, sir,” she responded quickly.  “This way please.”

        The older officer in the lab coat was now shifting menacingly behind Captain Kelly.  “If we’re done with the pleasantries, I have wounded to look at,” he growled.  Noticing the surprised faces from the Thurston’s crew, he gruffly added as an afterthought, “Sherman Cottle, Galactica’s Chief Medical Officer.”

        Derek turned away from the group, following the raven-haired soldier through the hatch and into Ragnar Station.  They walked briskly through the corridor before reaching a cavernous staging area.  Continuing silently, they made their way to a waiting train located along the interior wall of the depot.   The marine stepped to the side, opening a waist-high door for him.  Closing the door, she walked past Derek to the front where she stopped at the train’s control. 

        Turning to him, “Sir, you will want to hold the support.  It’s not a very smooth ride,” she suggested in a soft voice.

        Derek grabbed the waist-high rail along the edge of the car.  “I’m ready, Private,” he stated.  The car took off faster than he expected.  Determined not to stumble he squeezed the hand-rail tightly, his left arm straining to hold his body still as the two of them accelerated from the platform.  Barreling along the rails in front of them, Derek let his mind wander as the wind whipped across his face in the open air car. 

        Derek hadn’t seen Commander Adama since he was a nugget assigned to the Columbia.  Serving as the Battlestar’s Executive Officer, the then-Colonel Adama, had a taken a personal interest in his career.  He had nearly changed Derek’s call sign to “Doghouse” due to the inordinate amount of time that the Colonel spent chewing out the freshly minted Lieutenant.  Six months later, Commander Adama had left for the Valkyrie.  Derek had breathed a sigh of relief, and had remained “Green-Bean”.  He remembered how surprised he was at the end of his first tour when Commander Adama had offered him a commission.   He had turned it down, instead opting for a fresh start on the Battlestar Pacifica.  He eventually had made his way to the Odin, where he had commanded a squadron of Vipers, Raptors and two General Purpose Shuttles.

_Bill Thurston 12- Cargo Hold 5_

        Passing through the hatch into the expansive hold, Doctor Cottle brusquely pushed past the freighter’s plump Captain, making a bee-line for a group of Colonial soldiers and civilian workers congregating in the middle portion of the hold.  “Medics!” he called out to the trailing medical personnel.  He kept a brisk pace as two of the nurses rushed to his side.  “Ishay, your with me, the rest of you begin triage on the ambulatory refugees.  I am heading to the more serious group over there,” he ordered, pointing at a group of men and women sitting or lying on the deck to his right.                      

        “Yes sir!” they responded in unison, quickly streaming past him, gurneys in tow, towards the throng of people standing to their right.

        Dr. Cottle and Ishay along with two additional marines quickly reached the small group of patients clustered towards the far wall.  He knelt down next to an unconscious young man.  His duty shirt had been removed.  In its place, blood stained bandages were wrapped tightly around his chest, arms and hands.  Grimacing, Doctor Cottle placed his stethoscope on the side of the man’s throat, silently gauging the man’s pulse.  Satisfied, he gently turned his face, noting the burn marks on the man’s chin and cheeks before pulling a small flashlight out of his coat pocket to check the patient’s pupillary response.  Sighing, he returned the light to his pocket and began to search the immediate area for a chart on the patient.  Not seeing one, he stood up and looked again, noticing a handmade bracelet taped around the man’s left wrist for the first time, the name “Avazz, R.” carefully printed on it.

        “Doctor,” A soft timid voice sounded from behind him. 

Turning in that direction, Dr. Cottle found a young blonde woman quietly kneeling behind him.  “You must be the ship’s nurse,” he stated gruffly.

        Clearly intimidated by the surly man, she meekly responded, “Yes Doctor, I’m Spera Harris.”  She looked as she wanted to bolt.  Instead, she pointed to a table along the wall.  “I have the charts on the table over there,” she added nervously.

        Doctor Cottle looked at the table, and then he briefly surveyed the wounded in front of him.  Sighing loudly, he looked at the young woman, “You’ve done well here.”  He watched her face relax slightly at that remark, “Go grab those charts and bring them over here.” 

        The three medical officers spent the next 30 minutes going over the patients’ conditions in hushed tones, carefully prioritizing those most in need from those beyond their ability to  heal.  Kneeling over a young man, the Doctor looked at the patient’s wrist band, it read, Korzann, A.  He gently administered a shot of morpha into his remaining arm.  Placing his hand on the young man’s sweat-covered forehead, he offered him a last bit of comfort.  He watched the young man’s face relax slightly as the opiate took effect.  Waiting for the inevitable, the doctor took his hand and sat with him.   Within a few minutes, Specialist Korzann began to wheeze and then hyperventilate.  Squeezing the young man’s hand firmly, Doctor Cottle met his gaze as his patient slipped into the afterworld.  He placed the limp hand on the man’s chest before reaching forward to close his now lifeless eyes.  He remained seated there a few moments, quietly collecting his thoughts.  Then, with grace belying his age, the doctor quickly stood up and called to his assistant.

        “Ishay, what is the status of the ambulatory refugees?” he asked pointedly.

        Turning to him, the young brunette medic reported back, “They are all fit for travel Doctor, most have minor frostbite from exposure, some burns, sprains, and a few broken bones, but none of these patients are seriously injured.” 

        “Let’s get these patients to Galactica’s sick bay,” he ordered indicating the group of most serious patients in front of him.   Turning to the nurse, “I need a line to the Galactica.”

        “This way Doctor,” she answered, leading him to a small control room in the front of the hold.  She picked up the receiver, depressing a few keys.  “This is Nurse Harris, Doctor Cottle needs a line to Galactica.”  She paused a moment, “Thanks, Marel.” She handed the phone to the Doctor.

        “Galactica, Combat. Specialist Dualla,” sounded through the handset a moment later.

        “Dee, this is Doc Cottle, I need you to patch me through to the quartermaster.”

        “Very well sir, one moment.”

        His conservation with the quartermaster was brief.  With the Galactica in the middle of her decommissioning when the attacks began, there was ample room aboard the old warship for survivors.  He and the nurse headed back to the refugees in the middle portion of the hold.  Signaling for the marines to join him, he quickly got the attention of all in the room.  They organized the patients into small groups, and then escorted by the Galactica’s marines, he watched them neatly file out of the hold. 

        Turning to the nurse, “Ms. Harris, I am going to keep the deceased here for now.  Once things calm down a bit, I will have them transferred to a temporary morgue that I have set up on Galactica.”  He waited for her reaction.  Seeing none, he continued, “Now, this is important.”  He fixed her with a hard expression, “Under no circumstances are these souls to be handled in any way.  Is that clear?”

        “Yes, sir.” she answered him.  

        Doctor Cottle turned and with Nurse Harris in tow, began walking towards the back of the hold.  He quickly began surveying the deceased, laying in neat rows on the floor.  A few bodies were mangled, several more showed damage from being burned, but the vast majority of the deceased had succumbed to hypothermia, anoxia, and the exposure to a vacuum.  He was passing down the third row of victims, his mind juggling the turmoil of emotions running through him.  He had just turned to inspect the next row of bodies, when he suddenly stopped.  He turned back to the previous row, a look of confusion on his face.  Something caught in his mind, a face that he recognized. 

        Marching swiftly back to the third row, he quickly came to a stop in front of one of the victims.  His face was distorted by frost bite burns and broken blood vessels caused by the vacuum.  Dr. Cottle looked at the plain man carefully.  He was in his mid-30’s, and he wore the light gray uniform of the civilian firm which had been updating the computers.  He was of average height and build with sandy brown hair.  He picked up the man’s hand and looked at the wristband; it read, “M. Doral.”

        “Nurse, do you have a chart for this man?” he asked the nurse.

        “Yes, Doctor, it’s over there,” she said before turning and jogging towards a different table along the wall.

        Doctor Cottle waited, anxiously studying the young man’s face, his mind paralyzed as he tried to solve the puzzle before him.  The nurse returned momentarily.  Taking the folder from her hand, he quickly opened it, pulling out the form that the Nurse had filled out after recovering the victims.  Taped to the sheet was the young man’s I.D. card from Integral Systems Engineering.  Grabbing it firmly he roughly ripped it off the page.  Now studying the picture on the I.D. the Doctor could hardly believe his eyes.  The face on the card belonged to Michael Doral, but it also belonged to Aaron Doral, the arrogant public relations officer assigned to the Galactica for her decommissioning.  The same Aaron Doral whom was now in Galactica’s brig, who had been accused of placing an unknown device in Galactica’s C.I.C, and was also suspected of being a human-like Cylon.  He closed the folder in frustration and handed it back to the young nurse.  “Son of a bitch,” he growled.

        “Doctor, do you know him?” the nurse asked.

        Gathering his thoughts, he responded, “I think his cousin serves on the Galactica.”  Looking around, he called out, “Corporal!”

        A young black marine came up, his uniform pocket identifying him as Corporal Venner. 

        “I need you to bring this body back to the Galactica immediately, take it to Nurse Ishay and have her take him to the morgue in life station.” 

        The marine waited for a medic to bring over a gurney, quickly lifting the body on to it.  Once secured to the cart Corporal Venner began pushing the deceased towards the hatch. 

        Clearly agitated, the ill-disposed doctor quickly called out, “Corporal, wait one moment please.”  He turned to the nurse, “You have done an excellent job here.  I need to attend to this,” he pointed to the deceased man.  “If he is who I think he is, his cousin will want to know as soon as possible.”  Without waiting for a response, he took the folder from her and whirled towards the marine.  The two quickly made their way back to the Galactica.


	10. Recovery

_Battlestar Galactica, Commanding Officers Quarters._

        Flattening the blue sleeves of his new duty uniform, Derek was glad that he had insisted on stopping at the Quartermaster’s office upon arriving on the Galactica.  A muffled, “Enter,” snuck through the thick hatch which separated the Commanding Officer’s Quarters from the waiting soldiers in the dimly-lit corridor.

        Derek instantly recognized Commander Adama’s deliberate, gravelly voice.  He waited as the marine opened the hatch before following his escort inside.   Stopping in front of the weathered Commander, Derek quickly came to attention.  “Captain Robinaux reporting, sir,” he announced.

        Commander Adama brought his bandaged hand up, returning the Captain’s salute.  “At ease,” he replied.  He extended his hand to his former officer, “It’s been a long time, Derek.  I wish it were under different circumstances.”

        Derek released his hand.  “Yes, sir,” he answered somberly.  Commander Adama was shorter than he remembered, and he had aged considerably, his black hair now silver gray.  Still, the matching blood-stained bandages on his hand and head did not diminish the strength his former commanding officer conveyed.

        The Commander took a moment to address the escorting marine and briskly dismissed her.  He returned his attention to Derek, appreciative for the heavy silence which had settled between them.  Motioning to an antique wooden desk he directed the younger officer to the far end of his quarters.  He led the Captain past an informal sitting area monopolized by a massive leather sectional sofa.  A classic print from the Cylon war was centered above it.  “Have a seat.” 

        Derek let the surroundings of the office wash over him as he pulled the chair to sit down.  Soft, muted lights, deep rich rugs, and book cases overflowing with old leather-bound volumes gave the room a feeling more akin to a history professor than a military officer.  Breaking his reverie, Derek turned his attention to the Commander sitting across from him, patiently waiting.

        “Why don’t we begin?” The Commander started, his rough voice had a softness that Derek didn’t remember.  Not waiting for a response, “Thank you for this,” he continued, holding the after-action report that Derek had written while aboard the Freighter.  “I haven’t had a chance to read it in detail.  I would like to hear about your experiences, both at Armistice Station and at Virgon.  I would also like to hear your thoughts on the ship and crew that brought you here.”

        Derek began his story, and to his surprise he found himself easily detailing the trials of his ordeal.  For his part, the Commander encouraged this, as he sat leaning back in his chair, quietly taking notes, and not once interrupting Derek’s story.  His report finished, Derek sat up nervously, waiting for the Commander to look up.

        The Commander looked right at him, wearing glasses that Derek didn’t realize that he had put on.  “I have a few questions,” he stated plainly.  The two went back forth, Commander Adama continuing to take notes over the next 15 minutes.  Reaching a comfortable stopping point, the Commander stacked his notes neatly against the desk before placing them in the folder with Derek’s report.  Taking off his glasses, he turned to Derek, “Thank you, Captain.”

        Clasping his hands together, the Commander sighed quietly as he reviewed the computer monitor on his desk.  He turned back to Derek, sizing him up, “Captain, I am re-assigning you to Galactica’s Air Wing.”  Before either could respond, the wall phone to his left rang out for his attention.  “Excuse me a moment, Captain.”

        Derek watched as he picked up the phone, silently listening to half of the conversation taking place next to him.

        “This is the Commander.”

        “Yes, Doctor.”

        “You found what?”

        “Yes, I’ll be right there.”

        “Thank you, Doctor.”

        Adama clicked a button on the base unit, reconnecting the line to the Com officer in the C.I.C.  “Dee, have Col. Tigh meet me at Sick Bay.”  He hung up the phone.

        The Commander turned back to the waiting Captain.  “Derek, I need you to report to Captain Adama.  He is the Galactica’s CAG.”  He glanced at the notes on his desk, “I understand you suffered a concussion at Virgon.”  He waited for the pilot to nod affirmatively.  “After meeting with the Captain, you will report to Dr. Cottle, I expect that he will clear you for flight duty.”

        Derek tried not to blanch as the Commander named his son as the new lead pilot.  “Yes, sir,” Derek responded, with more than a trace of confusion in his voice.

        The Commander rocked back slightly as he gauged the pilot’s tone.  Looking directly at the Captain, he responded to the unspoken challenge with a measured tone.  “I am afraid our previous CAG, Major Spencer, was lost with the majority of the Vigilantes squadron during our previous contact with the Cylons.  Captain Adama was the highest ranking pilot on board after the initial attack.  He has my full confidence.”

        “Of course, sir,” Derek responded crisply.  This was the Adama that he remembered, the one who played favorites.  He hoped he didn’t hold grudges the way that he used too. 

        “Can you find your way to the CAG’s office?  I can arrange an escort if you’d like,” the Commander offered.

        Derek stood; towering over this new C.O. “I think I can find my way.  Thank you, sir,” he replied.

        Adama stood as well.  “It’s good to have you as part of our team.  You are dismissed.”

        Coming to attention, Derek quickly saluted before replying, “Thank you sir.”  He turned to leave but stopped as the Commander called him back.

        “Captain,” he paused, his expression softening, “Derek, allow me to offer my deepest regrets at the loss of any family or friends you have suffered today.”  He chewed his top lip lightly, “I know you have a family.  Is there any chance that they may have made it off world?”

        Derek stood still, his heart pounding as he furiously stomped down his surging heartache.  Stiffening, he looked at the Commander before answering, “I don’t think so, sir.  My wife and daughter were both at home on Caprica.”  He spun on his heels to leave.  When he reached the hatch, Derek turned back to Adama.  “I’m glad your son survived, sir.”  He paused for just a moment, “You have my word, as a father, that I will do everything I can to make sure he…”

        Adama dropped his head in response.  Now looking up at his returned officer, he replied, “Thank you Derek, I know you will.”

        Derek passed through the hatch, quickly marching a path towards the CAG’s office, struggling to keep his emotions under control.  Half way there he entered a small utility closet, quietly closing the door behind him.  Sliding to the deck, his knees in his hands, he allowed his emotions to rise and surface.  Burying his head between his legs, he began to sob.  After the storm passed, he sat in the small dark room for a few more minutes.  He wiped his face and blew his nose into some paper towels which he had torn off a roll on the cart next to him.  Straightening his uniform shirt, he carefully exited the closet, resuming a more reasonably paced course to his new CAG’s office.  

_Battlestar Galactica- Sick Bay._

        Commander Adama approached the attendant at the nurse’s station just inside the main entry to Galactica’s extensive sick bay.  Brightly lit and clean, the small lobby was furnished with two small couches on either side of the main hatch, a small table sat next to each couch, both of which were accented with a small plant.  The hatch behind the Commander opened.   Turning towards the door, Adama watched as a harried Colonel Tigh rushed through.  

        Pulling up suddenly, the balding executive officer turned his attention to the Commander.  “What’s this about, Bill?” he asked quietly.

        “We’ll both see in a minute,” he answered his longtime friend.  They both turned their attention to the painfully young crew man seated behind the large desk at the center of the compartment.  The two officers waited briefly as he quickly replaced the phone’s receiver back in the base.  

        “Commander, Colonel,” he nervously stammered.  “Doctor Cottle should be here any moment.”

        “Thank you,” Adama responded. 

        Doctor Cottle pushed through the swinging double doors into the lobby. Holding one of the doors opened, he nodded at the waiting officers, then addressing the soldier behind the desk, he brusquely directed, “I am not to be disturbed for the next few minutes.”  Stepping to the side, he ushered the ship’s two most senior officers into the medical wing, “This way gentlemen.”

        The doctor led the officers to the morgue three decks below Sick Bay’s main level.  Commander Adama waited in front of a large closet next to the elevator as the doctor crossed the dark room, his footsteps following a familiar path to the far wall.  He squinted as the bright lights came on.  Moments later, his eyes nearly adjusted, he took in the large, sterile room.  Rectangular in shape, the two long walls were lined with locker-like doors, each one housing a body inside.  A small workstation sat along the edge of the far wall where Doctor Cottle now sat carefully working with the computer.  Eight stainless steel tables filled the interior of the room, seven of which held a victim from the Cylon attack.  Walking to the nearest table, Adama cautiously picked up the folder clipped to the side.  He opened the folder and quickly reviewed the file inside.  With a sigh, he put the folder back before carefully unzipping the top of the black body bag a few inches.  He shuddered as the burned face and uniform of Specialist Prosna was revealed to him.  The Commander bowed his head and offered a silent prayer in honor of the slain soldier.

        The doctor approached the two officers quietly, almost reverently.  He indicated to the opposite wall, “The victim I want to show you is over there.”  He turned and headed towards the indicated locker.  Upon reaching it, he produced a key which he inserted into the mechanism next to one of the locker doors.  Turning the key, he opened the door and smoothly slid the drawer out, a black body bag resting on top.  With a nod, he and Colonel Tigh each grabbed an end of the bag, carefully sliding the body onto the lone empty table.   Leaning over the body, he opened the bag for the two commanding officers to see.

        “Who am I looking at, Doctor?”  Adama asked quietly.

        With a serious look, the doctor picked up the chart and handed it to the Commander.  “This is Michael Doral, a computer specialist with Integral Systems Engineering.  He was on the Battlestar Promptus,” he answered directly.  “If you look at the picture on his I.D., you will notice…”

        “Yes, I see,” Adama replied stoically.  “Colonel?” he said quietly, handing the folder to his executive officer.  He bent forward to more closely examine the body in front of him.

        “Gods Dammit!” Tigh exclaimed after looking at the I.D. in the folder.  His eyes hardening, they glared at the body below.  Calmer now, he quickly added “I guess this confirms Dr. Baltar’s suspicions about our Mr. Doral.”

        Adama looked at the doctor for confirmation.  Receiving none, he straightened to his full height, scratching his chin as he stared vacantly at the row of lockers across from him.  “This doesn’t confirm that Mr. Doral is a Cylon, but it is a hell of coincidence.”  He paused as he turned back to the two officers with him, “Any mention of Mr. Doral having an identical twin?” he asked cautiously.

        “Come on, Bill!” Tigh exclaimed, “I reviewed the security footage while you were on the station, and we know our Doral planted that device on the DRADIS console.  Whatever the hell it is.  Now we just happen to find a twin brother, who happened to be on a different Battlestar. Coincidence my eye; they’re fracking Cylons and you know it!”  

        “So what do we do with him? Shoot him?” the doctor asked gruffly.

        Tigh looked up at that, a wicked gleam in his eyes; “We put him out the airlock is what we do,” he said viciously.

        “No,” Adama stated strongly.  Both officers looked at him, waiting for his decision.  “We leave him here, on the station, alive.”  He waited as both officers nodded their head’s deferring to him.  “Leoben, the human-like Cylon I fought in the station, he told me that when he died his consciousness and location would be transmitted, somehow, to the Cylon command.  I don’t know if he made that up, but just in case, I don’t want to knowingly carry around a living Cylon on board.”

        The officers stood at the table for a moment, breaking the silence, the doctor spoke up, “Commander, I would like to keep both human-like Cylon bodies on board for further study.” 

        “That would be fine,” he answered, “Please include Dr. Baltar in your examination.”  He waited as the Doctor nodded in agreement, “Thank you Doctor, please keep me informed of your progress.”  Turning on his heel, Commander Adama and Colonel Tigh made their way towards the elevator as they headed back to the Combat Information Center.

        His eyes were fixed on those of his Commander, even as the two officers briskly made their way back to the Command Center of the ship.  “Bill, how many of these fracking things you think we have on board? Hell, the gods only know how many are hiding in those civilian ships!”

        “We may never know,” he answered gravely.  Without breaking stride, he added, “We have to keep this quiet Saul.  No one can know that the Cylons look like us.”

        With a heavy heart, Colonel Tigh replied, “Aye, sir.”

_Battlestar Galactica – Commander Air Group Office_

        Derek was surprised to find the hatch to his new Commanding Officer’s office open.  He paused briefly to straighten his uniform before stepping into the doorway.  The first person he saw was a young woman wearing standard issue green fatigues with a gray sleeveless tee and brown tank combo.  Sitting on the edge of the desk, her body position and the large cigar which hung from her mouth exuded the extreme cockiness which so many Viper pilots clutched as a badge of honor.  Behind the desk sat a serious looking man wearing the same fatigues and shirt combo that his colleague wore.  Derek guessed he was about thirty, short and stocky with brown hair, his skin tone slightly darker than your typical Caprican.  There was a very slight resemblance to his father.   Derek stepped into the doorway and quickly came to attention, “Captain Derek Robinaux reporting, sir.”

        Seemingly unprepared for his new officer’s arrival, the younger man stood up.  The Viper pilot next to him seemed to hesitate before gingerly sliding off of the desk and slowly turned to face the new pilot at the door. 

        “At ease, Captain, please come in.”  

        Derek stepped forward, extending his hand and shaking that of his new boss.  He turned to the brash pilot next to him.  She was tall and muscular with short blonde hair.  Her predatory eyes were measuring him, looking for weaknesses, silently challenging him.  He waited for Captain Adama to sit down before sitting himself.  Moments later, the Lieutenant sauntered to a couch along the far wall, casually stretching out along its length.

        “Lee Adama.” The young man introduced himself, grimacing slightly he pointed to the young woman behind him, “That’s Lt. Kara Thrace, you’ll have to excuse her manners, rumor has it she was raised by wolves.”  He smiled meekly at that.  Composing himself, he picked up a folder sitting on his desk.  He opened it, cursorily looking it over, “I see you were squadron leader on the Cruiser Odin, and I also read that you previously served under my father.”

        “Yes sir,” Derek answered curtly.

        Lee put the folder down, sighing quietly.  He looked Derek straight in the eye.  “Captain, as I am sure you are aware, you have time in grade.  Technically, I should be reporting to you.”

        Derek looked back at the man across from him.  ‘Am I really supposed to follow this kid and his out of control pilots?’ he asked himself, silently fuming.   Trying not to react, he pushed those thoughts to the side before responding “Yes, sir.”

        Lee never broke eye contact with the pilot seated across from him; “Is there going to be a problem, Captain?”

        “No, sir; I’ve already spoken with the Commander, you have his full confidence.”  Derek responded bluntly.  What did it matter, I’ll probably be dead within the week; he thought callously, a part of him hoping.  To his surprise, his new Commanding Officer laughed at that.

        Quickly recovering, his brief smile turned into a scowl as he thought of his father, “Well, that would be a first,” Lee bitterly responded.  He pushed the folder to the side, “Look, Captain” he began, “I don’t need you to agree with the Commander’s decision to appoint me as this ship’s lead pilot; but that was his decision, and I need you to respect that and the chain of command.  If you can’t then you need to talk to the Commander.  Just keep in mind my father’s not one to back down.”  Lee looked at the man across from him, carefully watching his expression before continuing.  “But here’s the thing, Derek, I need you.  I’ve only been on this ship a few hours longer than you have.  I don’t know any of these pilots, except Kara.  I’ve never worked with any of them.  And now, hours after the annihilation of our society, I need to organize these pilots who don’t know me, don’t trust me, and have lost everything and everyone they know and love into a cohesive force to defend this fleet.  I need you, Derek.  I need your experience, your seniority; I need you to help me defend this pathetic, disparate collection of broken- down civilian ships, which as far as we know, holds the last surviving souls of our species.  Will you help me, Derek?”

        Derek nodded his head, quietly answering, “Yes, sir, I will follow your command.”

        “Good.”  Lee spun the monitor so that Derek could see the data on the screen, “We currently have 54 Vipers, which I am dividing into two squadrons.  I will command the Vigilantes, FC-97 and I want you to command Primus squadron, FC-01.  I am assigning Lt. George Birch, call-sign Cat-Bird, and Lt. Tucker Clellan, call-sign Duck, as your team leaders.”  Lee handed Derek two manila folders, each containing the dossier of a pilot.  “Each is an experienced pilot and should be able to help you organize your squadron.”

        Derek took the folders from Lee, responding “Very well, sir,” as he placed them to the side. 

        Lee handed him a third folder, “I am assigning Lt. Joel Ortega to be your wing-man.”  He called Lt. Thrace over, “Kara, why don’t you quickly brief the Captain on Lt. Ortega.”

        Guffawing quietly, Kara strode back to the table where she took the folder out of Derek’s hands.  She placed the folder open on the table, “Galactica is Ace’s first assignment, he’s been here three months, and as you can guess he is your typical nugget, 24 years old, ready to take on the worlds and he thinks he knows everything.”

        Derek grimaced at the thought of breaking in a new pilot, I really am going to die in the next week, he thought sourly as he scanned the top page.

Kara waited for Derek to look up before continuing, “Unlike most nuggets though, he’s a hot stick and quick learner.”  She smiled for a second, “He lets his temper get the better of him, and he tends to be too aggressive, especially in the heat of the moment.  Overall, though, he is one of the better rookie pilots that I have flown with.”

        “So,” Lee chimed in, “I’m hoping you can train this pilot, help him to reign in his temper, and teach him to make better decisions.”

        Derek picked up the folder, and then firmly placed it in front of him.  “Yes, sir.”

        Smiling for the first time, Captain Adama stood up, “Now, let’s find you a plane.” 

        Derek watched Lee walk around the desk and past him before passing through the hatch.  Derek hastily got up and followed the Captain out of the door towards the hangar bay.


	11. Storm Stories

_Grappler BT 12 – 2_

       “Grappler BT 12–2 to Galactica Control, requesting landing instructions,” Marsha called into her com system.  She was struggling to keep the awed excitement she felt restrained.  At just under a kilometer and a half in length, the Battlestar dwarfed her utility craft.  With a wrecked Viper in the forward claw, the pilot smoothly sailed over the dorsal spine of the warship.  She flew slower than normal as her mind was occupied with controlling her unwieldy craft while trying to take in every detail of the mammoth starship below.  Marsha had passed over the sloping forward section.  With her neck craning down uncomfortably, Marsha intently cataloged the numbers and types of cannons and missile emplacements stretching the long mid-section of the ship. 

       “Galactica Control to Grappler BT-12-2, you are cleared for Hands-On-Approach.  Port Flight Pod, Speed One-Zero-Zero, Elevator Blue Stripes, Deck Controllers will relay final taxi instructions.  Call the ball.” 

       Marsha had passed over the dorsal engine pods and with the Galactica now behind her she gently slowed her craft and nudged her control stick down and to the left.  Heeling over on its lateral axis, Marsha’s Grappler gracefully spun down and 180 degrees so that she was now facing the stern of the Battlestar.  She quickly repeated the landing instructions back to the traffic controller as she brought her craft on the prescribed flight path for a safe landing. 

       “I have the ball,” she called, and with a flare from her main thrusters, the Grappler leapt towards the pill-shaped flight pod, which hung slightly below and off the side of the main body of the ship. 

       She passed through the tall triangular opening.  Marsha gazed upwards noting the davits and gantries positioned along the ceiling as she sped above the flight line towards the opening at the forward end of the flight pod.  At the sudden realization that she was flying through a tunnel, she immediately focused her attention on the task of landing her plane safely.  She carefully checked her speed and altitude before scanning for the correct elevator pad.  She found it half way down on the port side of the landing deck.  Two crewmen dressed in bright yellow pressure suits waited off to the side.  Marsha slowed her craft as she approached the scratched white pad with blue stripes.  One of the deck hands stepped out from against the wall, a small glowing stick in each hand.  Following the controller’s directions she gently settled her craft above the landing point.  Waiting for his signal, she tapped her control thrusters, softly bringing her plane to the deck with a comfortable thud. 

       The tired voice of the L.S.O. popped through her headset, “Grappler BT-12-2 Skids down, mag locks secured.  Deck crew, begin Viper retrieval.”

       Activating her claw controls, she released the dorsal arm, which quickly folded back along its length before flipping over and settling flat against the dorsum of her craft.  She watched as the tractor carefully pushed the tracked lifting trailer underneath the Viper which she was carrying.  Feeling her plane lift back and up slightly as the trailer below her took the weight of the Viper she released and retracted the two remaining lateral arms flat against the fuselage of her craft.  Moments later, she watched with relief as the tractor slowly pulled away from her, lowering the Viper so that it rode flush on the top of the trailer.  Once clear of her Grappler, the tractor paused momentarily, allowing the deck controller to climb into the passenger seat next to the driver, before starting again towards the next closest elevator pad.  She blankly stared at the tractor and Viper which were now descending into the hangar below, wistfully wondering what secrets were hidden inside the great ship.

       Marsha was shaken out of her reverie as her speakers called out suddenly, “Galactica Control to Grappler BT-12-2.  You are cleared for departure from the flight deck.  Safe trip and thanks.”     

       Marsha briefly checked her engines and seeing that her board was green, she reached forward to release the magnetic locks holding her to the flight deck.  Just as she reached the release, she stopped, her gloved fingers hanging inches in front of the large yellow switch.  She shook her head dismissively before briefly cursing silently, “Frack that.”  Her whole life she had dreamed to fly Vipers, but through a lack of luck and effort on her part, she had never had that chance.  Now, she found herself attached to the flight deck of a Battlestar, likely filled with scores of the sleek fighters that she had coveted for as long as she could remember.  “Frack that,” she said again stridently. Turning her headset mic on, she took a quick breath before speaking, “Grappler BT-12-2 to Control, Check that.  Permission to come below and use the head.”  The brief delay in response seemed to drag out and spell certain denial for her seemingly innocent request. 

       “Permission granted; an escort will meet you in the hangar, Control out.” 

       Grinning from ear to ear, Marsha let out a startled yelp as her ship shuddered suddenly before slowly lowering into the bowels of the ship.

_Hangar Bay Compartment B, Port Flight Pod_

       Derek looked at the row of Vipers which stretched along the length of the hangar in confusion. The compartment was absolutely electric with activity, with four technicians swarming over every Viper in each of the twenty stalls lining the outside walls.  The only exception was a lone unattended Mark VII Viper suspended from above by three thick smart cables.  That lone hanging Viper was the source of Derek’s confusion, as every other plane in the compartment belonged to older, retired versions of the current fighter.  In fact, the majority of the planes were Mark II’s, the same vintage fighter that fought the Cylons in the first war, 40 years earlier.  It was as if he had walked into a museum instead of a Viper repair bay on a modern active Battlestar.  Coming to a stop, his mouth hanging slightly open, he reconsidered the last thought.  The Galactica wasn’t exactly modern, and in fact, it was one of the oldest existing ships in the fleet.  It was, he remembered, the only remaining original Battlestar which had served in the first war. 

       Captain Adama had stopped to watch Derek’s reaction as he took in the collection of antique fighters.  “Galactica lost her remaining active squadron of Mark VII’s to the Cylons yesterday.  Kara led the remaining pilots in combat and they were able to successfully engage two squadrons of enemy fighters with these older models.”

       Derek turned to face the brash pilot, a thousand questions jockeying to be the first asked.  He nearly stuttered, his mind still reeling from the scene in the hangar bay and the thought of taking these relic fighters into combat.  “The Cylons did something to our Vipers.  They all just shut down, and from what I heard, our Capital ships did, too.”   He paused again, a hint of skepticism in his voice, “The Galactica and these old Vipers, they weren’t affected by whatever the Cylons did to us?  How did their performance compare to a modern Raider?” he asked.

       Kara had Lee and Derek’s full attention now, “The Cylons used a computer virus to shut down any ship which had the Command Navigation Program installed.  These Vipers were all retired before the C.N.P. was developed, so they were unaffected.” She paused for a moment, a cocky grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she casually jerked her thumb at a nearby Mark II.  “As for performance, well, I managed to splash six of those bastards in that bucket over there.”

       Derek stood there numbly, his mind feverishly sorting through the clutter of questions buzzing for his attention.  “And the Galactica?  How did she survive?”

       Lee spoke this time, “Commander Adama did not allow the computers on the Galactica to be networked, therefore the C.N.P. was never installed into her systems.”  His eyes hardened slightly, and he seemed to turn away from Kara without moving his head, “Luck, really.  My father’s stubbornness aside, if the Galactica had met a Basestar instead of a fighter recon, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

       Kara was glaring at Lee.  She shook her head angrily.  “Why don’t you cut your father some slack, Lee?”

       Derek watched as the CAG faced his borderline insubordinate officer, he shook his head dismissively, “Thank you, Lieutenant, is that all.”

       “Yes, sir,” she replied coldly.

       “Good,” Lee responded.  He drifted away from the officers towards one of the starboard side service bays.  He came out of the bay a moment later, a barrel chested man wearing grease stained orange coveralls trailing him. 

       Lee addressed Derek now, “This is Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol, Galactica’s Deck Chief.”

       The black-haired man turned to Derek, raising a dirty hand in a salute, “Sir.”

       “At ease, Chief.  How’s my plane?”

       The Chief’s face blanched at that.  Gesturing towards the Viper hanging from the gantry above, the four soldiers began heading towards it.  “I’m afraid you’re going to need a new one sir, at least until we can fix it.”

       They arrived at Derek’s Viper moments later.  The entire undercarriage of his plane lay on the deck off to the side.  Derek watched quietly as the Chief picked through various components in the pile.  He pushed one of the landing skids to the side and quickly rummaged through a tangle of ruined wiring and other pieces before pulling out a charred and warped piece of armor plating.  Bringing it to the Captain, he held it up for the officers to look at.  “This armor sat directly above your main tylium tank.”  He jabbed a finger at a blackened divot in the armor, “Right here, you were about 2/10’s from burn through.  You’re damn lucky, sir.”

       Derek picked gingerly at the charred indentation, shuddering slightly as he realized just how close he had been to dying.  “Thanks, Chief,” he sighed somberly.

       Lee coughed slightly, getting the others attention, “So, this man still needs a plane.  What do you have for him?”

       The Chief grimaced.  “This way,” he said before turning to cross to the port side of the compartment.  “We’re getting short on planes at this point, Captain, and I was hoping to hold this one in reserve,” he continued hesitantly.

       “Out with it Chief,” The younger Captain directed the reluctant mechanic.

       Stepping into the stall, Derek couldn’t help but smile as he looked up at the stern of the matte black fighter in front of him.  The smooth lines and baffled thrusters of the three main engines immediately identified it as a Mark VI.  “Excellent,” Derek breathed out in excitement.  With a satisfied smile, he looked over at the Chief, only to find him scowling.

       The three pilots walked around the Viper, carefully examining the seamless lines of the fighter in the stall.  The Mark VI, also known as the Stealth Viper, was supposed to revolutionize the Colonial Fleet.  Developed in secrecy, the black coloration of the Mark VI made it nearly impossible to see in space by the naked eye.  Its lines were smooth and soft, the guns were hidden internally in the wing roots, external hard points underneath had been replaced with internal bays, and even the forward sensor array was covered with a polarized shield.  Lastly, the entire plane was covered with DRADIS-absorbing compounds, making it nearly invisible to DRADIS scanners. 

       The Mark VI proved far more difficult and expensive to design and produce than expected.  Eventually, a few active squadrons were built and dispersed to Special Forces units and the Colonial Demonstration team.  The military had hoped that the expected brilliant performance by the new plane would win over the public and the politicians.  As it turned out, excessive maintenance needs and costs coupled with a few very public accidents led to the plane being dubbed “The Great Boon-Doggle” by the press.  Ultimately, the plane was deemed too expensive and technically demanding, and all future production runs were canceled.  In short time, the Mark VII was designed as an effective and more affordable replacement for both the aging Mark V’s and the still born Mark VI’s.

       “Damn, Chief!  You had this the whole time, and then gave me a Mark II!” Kara exclaimed, not entirely kidding.       

       Standing rooted to the deck, the Chief seemed to growl in frustration before answering the excited pilot.  “You said you wanted a plane that would fly, Lieutenant.”

       Chuckling quietly at the Chief’s exasperated comment, Lee looked over at the plane one more time.  “I assume this one has checked out?”

       With an air of defeat, the Chief answered dully, “Yes, sir, there’s no practical reason why this plane shouldn’t fly.”  He paused for a second, a sheepish grin on his face, “That being said, it is a Six.”

       Derek was half listening to the conversation as he carefully studied the plane.  Sensing that the other pilots were watching him, he turned to them as a group, “Where exactly did you get all these?”

       The Chief looked at Derek with a baffled expression.   Realizing the Captain’s confusion a moment later, he easily answered; “These planes were set up in the starboard flight pod as exhibits for the museum.  We brought them over and began to prep them after we lost our Mark VII’s near Caprica.  The speed and maneuverability of these old birds are similar, and we were able to upgrade the sensor and DRADIS packages as well.  The biggest difference, of course, is that the DRADIS return on a Mark VII is a lot smaller than it is for the older planes, well, except for the Mark VI’s, that is.”

       “Captain? Still here?” Lee asked.

       Derek stood in front of the plane dumbstruck, his mind reeling from the incredible story that he had just heard. “Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.”  He took a moment to collect his thoughts before giving his full attention to the others.

       “Well, I think we are done here,” Lee replied. “Derek, I want to get this plane set up for you now.  Chief, I know you’re busy, but I want this done right away.”

       “Not a problem, Captain, I can take care of this myself,” The Chief responded immediately.

       “Thanks,” Lee said to the mechanic.  Lee redirected his attention to Derek now, “After you’re done here, report to Sick Bay and then to your rack.”  He looked at Kara quickly and then back to Derek, “Air Wing Briefing is at twelve-hundred.  I expect the both of you and the other team leaders in the briefing room by eleven-thirty.”

       “Yes, sir,” Derek responded automatically.  He waited as Lee and Kara turned away, watching as they exited the hangar.  He and the Chief turned towards the plane, “Alright, ready when you are.”

       Tyrol had already crossed under the plane’s nose and was about to climb the starboard crew ladder when he responded, a mixture of amusement and resignation in his voice, “Yes, sir, no time like the present.”

       Smiling, Derek vaulted up the pilot ladder, “Call me Derek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by a conversation that I had with a friend of mine who is a maintenance instructor and supervisor for the F-135 Lightning II. 
> 
> Thanks to Starb_uck for the kind words. Glad you are enjoying it.


	12. Bobbing in an Eddy

 

_Battlestar Galactica – Cross Ship Passageways; Secondary Hull._

       It had been many years since Rebecca had been in the service, and she had forgotten just how colossally large a Colonial Battlestar was.  Already aggravated, her mood further soured as the herd mechanically clopped through the endless narrow and dimly lit corridors towards the port flight pod on the other side of the ship.  The group she was with came from ten of the sixty odd ships which were cowering behind the old Battlestar and the abandoned space station.  Rebecca covertly assessed the gaggle of mostly men.  Móros, all of them, she thought as they continued to trudge past yet another vaguely numbered passageway. 

       She wondered why they couldn’t have the meeting on the Galactica; as that would have made this operation a lot simpler.  Instead, the meeting was being held on the luxury cruise liner Cloud-9.  No longer anchored to the station, the military had been ferrying people from the station to the liner for the better part of an hour now.  At least the accommodations on the Cloud-9 would be a lot nicer than in the aging Battlestar, she figured.  They had been obediently following their guide for nearly half an hour and she still had no idea when they would arrive at their destination.  Exhausted, her emotions spent, Rebecca plodded next to Parah while she raged silently, poised to lash out at any fool who accidently crossed her path.

_Battlestar Galactica – Port Flight Pod_

       After what seemed an eternity, the large group of ships’ captains and officers found themselves facing a pressure tight hatch.  Rebecca tilted her neck so that she could read the directory label next to it.

 

**Port Hangar, Flight Deck, Brace 15, Compartment 9**

       Most of the people in her group, including her 2nd mate Marel, pushed forward and crowded the door.  All hoping to be the first thru the dog, where they would feast their eyes on scores of Vipers, Raptors, and other exotic military fare.  She let the crowd push around her, taking comfort in the comparative elbow-room at the back of the pack.  The hatch swung inwards and the crowd pressed in with great anticipation.  She held back again, waiting for the area to clear in front of her.  Crossing through the hatch, she smiled inwardly as she dismissed the disappointed whispers and comments from the others in her group.  To the majority’s surprise, they found themselves in a well apportioned and pleasant waiting room overlooking the flight deck.  It was a nice room she thought as she relaxed on one of the many vinyl couches that filled the room.  The occupants of the room had divided themselves into two groups; the majority was aimlessly drifting through the room briefly chatting with their fellow sailors as they gently crashed together before wandering off moments later.  The second group had migrated to the far wall, where they ogled the empty flight deck below through the four large windows.  The windows were actually large LED screens, and were divided equally along the length of the room, a pressure hatch located between each.  Rebecca found Marel with the second group, pressed against the screen carefully studying the General Purpose shuttles docked just below.  Climbing out of the couch she softly approached him, as she got close she couldn’t help to notice the disappointed expression on his face.  “You didn’t actually think that they’d let us in the hangar, did you?” she asked cautiously.

       He turned to face her, “Well, they let Marsha check it out,” he answered despondently.

       “Some people have all the luck,” she responded with a supportive smile.  She looked at the screen, watching the deck crew prep the shuttles below them.

       Parah approached the two from behind, grunting quietly as he pushed between Marel and the stranger next to him.  His face now pressed close to the large viewer, he rotated his head from fore to aft, slowly scanning the long flight line.  “Looks like two are coming in now,” he said; a trace of excitement in his voice. 

       Marel was on his tip toes, craning his neck uncomfortably so he could see around Parah’s bulk.  Two delta-shaped Vipers sped past them before quickly decelerating to a hover, each above a large elevator pad.  Both planes spun 180 degrees in unison, their noses pointing back towards the aft end of the flight pod before gently setting down on the pad.  Moments later both planes were sinking below the cold and silent deck on their way to the chaos of the hectic hangar below.  The three shipmates remained at the windows and continued to stare vacantly into the now dormant flight pod.

       “May I have everyone’s attention, please,” a man’s voice called out from behind them.

       Turning, Rebecca saw three young officers dressed in flight suits standing at the center gate.  The officer in the middle was of average height and stature and looked just slightly older than the other two pilots. 

       “My name is Lt. Saunders, these are Lieutenants Baker and Arrington, we will be taking y’all to Cloud-9 in just a few minutes,” he said, indicating to the male and then female pilot standing on either side of him.  “Each shuttle has room for twenty people, so if you would form up in lines behind each of these three jet ways, we can get on board and head out.  Thank you.”  He quietly nodded to the crowd before turning to his right and silently headed towards the far shuttle.

       Spinning to follow the senior pilot, Rebecca grabbed her crewmate’s elbows indicating for them to fall in behind her.  The three of them quietly passed through the jet way and into the utilitarian confines of the shuttle.  She led the trio forward thru the small windowless aft section and settled on a row with a nice sized port to look thru.  She stood aside and let Marel take the window seat.  She gestured at Parah, and with a kidding sneer quipped, “Rank has privileges.” 

       “Nice,” he growled as he squeezed his large frame into the narrow seat row. 

       Rebecca waited for him to sit down before dropping into the aisle seat next to him.  Minutes later, the shuttle lifted off the deck and dashed towards the nearby luxury liner.

_Luxury Cruise Liner Cloud Nine._

       Rebecca emerged from the jet-way into a lavish waiting room, complete with fountains, statues, fine art, and large overstuffed leather sofas and lounges.  The group was efficiently herded through the hatch and into an equally impressive passageway.  This is the life she thought as they made their way towards the meeting. 

       It was the first time that she had set foot on a cruise liner since taking a school trip to Caprica as a child.  Like most Sagittarons’, Rebecca’s family was poor, and she had only been able to pay for the trip by winning a scholarship.  Climbing aboard that first cruiser had changed her life and given her purpose.   Her goal from that day forward had been to get off the rock on which she had been raised and into the Captain’s chair of an opulent star liner.  And until two days ago, she had been moving towards that goal.   Rebecca had hoped that the rich surroundings of the liner would quiet her unsettled mind as she followed the group through the corridors.  Instead, she remained anxious and frustrated, her mind continuously rehashing the events from earlier in the day.

_Bill Thurston 12 – 2 hours earlier_

       Rebecca had been sleeping in her bunk when the phone sharply rang out for her attention.   She quickly sat up, lifting the phone from its base with an aggravated curse.  “Yes,” she drolled into the receiver. 

       “There’s a gentleman at Airlock-1 waiting to see you.  Says it’s important.” 

       Rebecca, scowled at the phone before replying, “Does he have a name?”

       “Yeah, name’s Wallace Gray, says he’s an aide to the President.”

       “Alright, send him…” she paused for just a second.  “Have Campara escort him to the galley, I’ll meet him there in five minutes.”  She dropped the phone back into its receiver without waiting for a response from Marel.  Sliding out of her rack, she hurriedly rustled through her locker looking for something to wear.  Snorting in aggravation, she grabbed a set of navy coveralls and slipped into them.  “This will be have to be presidential enough,” she said gruffly to the image in the mirror.

 

_Bill Thurston 12 – Galley._

       She found the man sitting at a table, a cup of coffee in his hand and a laptop computer setting in front him.  Dressed in a finer suit than anyone she had ever known, his thin brown hair was balding slightly and she guessed that he was in his mid-forties.  Crossing to him, she extended her hand and flashed a blatantly insincere smile.  “Mr. Gray, I’m Rebecca Davenport, ship’s Captain.  Welcome aboard.”

       “Thank you, Captain.”

       She walked around the table and sat on the bench across from him, “What do we owe for the pleasure?” she asked, her lips pulled into a wide smile.

       He studied her carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “How are you and your crew holding up through all of this?”  His head dropped slightly as he relaxed the muscles in his neck, waiting for her reply.

       “Were muddling through the best we can. Thanks for asking.”  Ready to get the impromptu meeting started, Rebecca stiffened her back and raised herself to her full height.  She looked the interloper directly in his watery eyes, “I’m afraid that I’m not one for pleasantries”, she began.  “Now, what can I do for you?” she asked impatiently.

       He grimaced slightly, “Certainly ma’am, I certainly don’t want to take up to much of your time, but there are a few things that we need to discuss if we are going to survive in both the near and the long term.”  Rebecca had largely tuned out the chattering bureaucrat.  Too tired to be concerned with manners, she closed her eyes as she rested her head in her hands, her fingers slowly massaging the screaming headache that had been tormenting her since she woke.

      "Miss, Miss Davenport."

       Rebecca shook her head slowly, opening her eyes she refocused on the man seated in front of her.  “Umm, yes,” she stated wearily.

       He sighed quietly, “You haven’t heard a word that I’ve said.”

       “Sorry, it’s been a long couple of days,” she responded, her aggravation from earlier replaced with exhaustion.

       “That’s fine, ma’am, we can discuss this in more detail later,” he paused for a moment, then quickly slid his laptop to her.  “If you would sign this work order, we can get started on the upgrades to your ship.”

       Rebecca sat bolt upright, “Upgrades?” she stammered.  Rebecca watched the man brace himself. “What upgrades,” she repeated.

       The man’s face hardened slightly, “The conversion of Cargo Holds Five and Six to living quarters for the refugees of this fleet.” 

       Her blood boiling, Rebecca nearly leapt out of her seat at the arrogant administrator seated across from her.  “Listen here, buddy.  No one touches my ship,” she spat out.

       “Ms. Davenport, surely you recognize the dire straits that our people are in,” he said in an exasperated tone.  “The President…”

       “The President is dead you moron,” she cut him off, venom dripping from every word.

       The well-dressed man stood to his full height, looking down at her with the well-practiced authority of one of Caprica’s business elites.  The exasperation in his voice from a minute ago replaced with directness, “Laura Roslin is the President now.  The cargo-holds on this ship will be converted to living quarters.  If needed, we can find someone else to captain her.” He remained standing, sneering at her from up high, “Am I clear, Ms. Davenport?”

       Trapped, she stood to face him.  She snapped to attention; bringing her hand smartly to her eyebrow in a mocking salute.  Fire in her eyes, she snarled, “Aye-Aye Captain.”

       “Good,” he replied with a condescending smile.  He turned to leave, but stopped.  He looked her over with a casual expression on his face as he ignored her withering stare, “There is a fleet organization meeting at 12:30 that the President would like for you to attend.  I will send someone to escort you and your senior officers to the conference.  They will be here at 11:30, be sure to be ready.”

       The blood draining from her face, Rebecca silently fumed as she watched the man quietly head down the corridor towards the airlock.   She watched him for a few moments longer, before turning in the opposite direction and retreating further into her ship. 

       At 11:30 sharp Hatch CT-1 opened and true to Mr. Gray’s word, a nameless solider entered.  Fixing him with a haughty and arrogant gaze, she motioned for him to wait while she gathered Parah and Marel.  Without a word, Rebecca and her shipmates walked through the hatch into the station, leaving him behind.  He caught up with them a moment later, passing her wordlessly before leading them to the waiting Mag-Lev train.

 

_Luxury Cruise Ship Cloud-9_

       Rebecca had been running that conversation through her head for most of her trek through the bowels of the ship.  Frustrated, her mind spinning in circles, she repeatedly asked herself, ‘What is my plan?’  She didn’t have one. 

       The thought of letting a team of strangers on her ship and run roughshod through it, cutting and welding sections together at their whim sickened her.  But what choice did she have?   It’s not like she could stand up to a Battlestar, she told herself.  Part of her, a very small part of her, understood the administration’s position; stories of over-crowding throughout the gathered ships were running rampant across the station.  What really pissed her off was that no one asked her.  This was her ship dammit, and who in the hell were they to tell her what to do.  She wanted, desperately wanted, to tell them all to kiss her lily-white ass, as she and her ship sailed on their own for greener pastures.   But, as she thought about it more carefully, she realized striking out on her own was not a long-term solution.

       Rebecca hadn’t been planning to leave the illusory security offered by the venerated Battlestar.  Continuously rehashing the problem in her mind, she would conclude that, for the time being, she had to remain with the Galactica for protection and supplies.  Minutes later she would deduce that remaining with the Galactica was certain suicide, as the Cylons would certainly prioritize finding the old warship and her freighter by default.  Distracted by her internal ruminations, she hadn’t noticed that the crowd had slowed their march.  Snapping her mind back to reality, she observed that the narrow corridor had opened into a wide foyer, with three sets of double doors in front of them.

       In the front of the room, a long table covered in a dark and rich blue fabric was set with five chairs and matching name plaques.  The flags of the Twelve Colonies stood proudly behind the table as if the events of the past two days hadn’t occurred at all.  It also did not slip Rebecca’s attention that the flag of Caprica stood near the center, while the flag of her home colony Sagittaron was relegated to the last position on the left-hand side.  Some things never change, even after the apocalypse, she thought.

       Most of the ships officers and crew were milling about the large room, gathered in groups of three and four.  Most were talking quietly amongst themselves, sharing the latest rumors and gossip, while a very small minority boasted loudly of their exploits in a vain attempt to bolster their ego.  She did her best to avoid everyone.  Failing to find a head to retreat to, she turned towards the next best thing, a water fountain hidden in a small alcove at the back of the room.  Finishing her drink, she turned to leave only to feel a hand lightly tap her on the shoulder. 

        She turned to face the man.  He was short, which is to say that he was slightly taller than her.  He was thin and dirty, with flowing greasy blonde hair pulled into a short pony tail.

       “Hi,” he said, “Gabe McClacken, drill operator on the Monarch,” he started, wearing a silly grin on his face.

       She noticed that his eyes were directed below her chin.  Glaring at him, she looked at the grimy and stubble faced man in front of her and almost responded, ‘Bitchy lesbian, back off.’  She held her tongue, and almost to her own surprise, she instead responded with an extended hand and smile, “Rebecca Davenport, Bill Thurston 12.”

       His eyes ticked upwards, his cool green eyes meeting her hard brown ones.  “Hell of a couple days,” he muttered absently.

       Rebecca scanned the room for her crew-mates, hoping to use them as an excuse to extricate herself from the man’s musings.

       But the man pressed on.  He wore a determined expression on his face now, his eyes hardening slightly, “We were in the Archeron Belt when the Basestars jumped in,” he paused momentarily.  “Don’t look a thing like the ones from the first war, more like jacks from the kids game, and a damn sight bigger than old ones, too,” he added randomly.  “Had a front row seat to the whole thing.”

       Rebecca could tell that he was waiting for her.  She had planned to choose the least interesting response she could, but instead asked “What were you doing in the field?” 

       The man seemed taken aback momentarily, “Well the Monarch’s a mining ship.  Sorry, I assumed you had checked out the ship registry.”

       “Been kind of busy since we got here, I haven’t really paid attention to the com log.  That’s probably why they had to send that corporal to drag me here in the first place.” She found herself smiling slightly as she pointed at the soldier who had led the group of refugees to the meeting.

       “Right,” he paused a second, preparing himself to start his story again. “Yeah, well we saw it all.   The Basestars showed up, a Battlestar and a couple cruisers came out to meet ‘em, and then they just went dead.  It was a slaughter.  First them Basestars tore up those ships, then they started rainin’ nukes down at the planet, meanwhile their raiders took out every single ship they seen, civilian or military.”  He shook his head and shuddered in an effort to clear the memory.  “We hadn’t been hiding in that belt, man, we’d be dead too,” he finished quietly.

       “I’m from Sagittaron,” she offered somberly.

       “Yeah, me too,” he responded quietly.  “Well, I’m glad you got out.”

       She reached for him, grabbing his elbow softly as he turned to leave.  She waited until she had his full attention, “We were on our way to Virgon, outside of DRADIS range.” She squeezed her eyes together momentarily, “We heard the entire battle over the wireless, by the time we got in system, the fleet, Hagenus Station,” she paused “hell the whole fracking planet was gone.”  She looked down at the floor, her hands were clenched, “The whole fracking planet,” she choked.

       “Wait a minute,” he responded, a mixture of confusion and awe in his voice, “You went in system?”

        “Yeah, we rescued some of the crew from one of the Battlestar’s before jumping to Sagittaron,” she said dejectedly.

       “Your heroes,” he stated.  “May the gods bless you.”

       She looked up at him, a mixture of sorrow, resentment and pride clouding her thoughts, “We’re not heroes, and to be honest, I’m not real thrilled with the gods right now, either.”  Turning her head towards the center of the room she found that Parah and Marel had grabbed seats near the back.  She turned back to Gabe, “My crew’s waiting for me.”

       “Yeah, I guess we had better get our seats,” he answered quietly.

       “Thanks, Gabe,” she responded.  Spinning on her heel, she quickly made her way to join her crew mates.

       Rebecca crossed the space and took a seat next to Nurse Harris, whom unexpectedly had joined them.  Rebecca could see that Spera was exhausted.  She was wearing dirty and wrinkled scrubs provided by the Battlestar’s medical staff.  She looked over her nurse with concern.  Her face was strained and tight, her hair was disheveled.  Small stains of blood, grease, and other chemicals could be seen on her hands, under her fingernails and on the cuffs of her sleeves.  Even Spera’s pale blue eyes, usually so vibrant, now appeared dull and tired.  Slowly reaching over, Rebecca softly squeezed the top of her knee.  “You alright?” she asked. 

       Spera turned to her, “Yeah, just tired,” she answered dully.  She looked down at her lap and then covered Rebecca’s hand with her own.  She squeezed it, and then looked up at Rebecca.  “It’s pretty bad down there, they’re really short staffed, and there are so many patients.  Lots of wounded: burns, broken bones, exposure.  Did you know they took a nuke in their port flight-pod?” she asked.

       “That explains the damage we saw when we came in,” Rebecca responded quietly.   She removed her hand, placing it in her own lap before asking, “I wonder why that ship survived when all the others didn’t?”

       “Scuttle-Butt is it had something to do with the computers,” Parah’s boorish voice belted out sharply.  “I expect they will let us know in this meeting.”

       Rebecca ignored his comment, her attention instead focused on a young man with a mop of brown wavy hair.  Her eyes followed him as he made his way to the center podium, noticing for the first time that it had the Presidential Seal fastened to it.  No shit, she thought, as the occupants of the room suddenly became very quiet.

       “Excuse me, please,” he stated into the microphone.  “My name is Billy Keikeya,” he said nervously.  “If you will all please give me your attention, we can get started.” 

       Four people crossed the stage from the left, two men and two women.  Taking a seat to the left of the center chair was an obese dark skinned Priestess.  She wore the ceremonial robes with an air of righteousness that could only come from the cloth.  A familiar looking man with shoulder length black hair sat next to the Priestess.  Rebecca guessed that he was in his early thirties.  He was nervous and appeared disheveled, despite being impeccably dressed in a fashionable black pin-striped suit.  On the other side of the table the Captain of the Cloud-9 seemed to alight gently on the chair in front of her before delicately removing her cover.  A tall and thin woman, she had bronze skin and seemed exceptionally fit for a woman in her mid-sixties.  She sat at rigid attention exceeding the crisp creases of the glaring white and elaborately adorned uniform that she wore.  Rebecca quashed a flare of anger as the last man, Wallace Gray, took his seat to the right side of the President. 

       Rebecca chewed her cheek as a growing discomfort gnawed at her while she looked over the group that settled into their seats.  The source of her discomfort materialized a moment later, the sudden realization sounding like a bell in her mind, she nearly stood up in alarm, her head swiveling back forth as she scanned the audience seated around her.  Settling back in her seat, she looked down in her lap, her spirits quickly plunging down another pitfall in this roller coaster of a day. 

       “What is it, Becca?” the soft voice of Spera beckoned her.

       Rebecca looked up and met her friend’s eyes.  “The military, they’re not here.”  She watched as Spera broke her gaze so that she could quickly scan the room.

       “Well, I’m sure their very busy. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” She offered hopefully.

       Rebecca closed her eyes as she tried to calm her free-falling emotions.  Oh, you lucky naïve girl, she thought to herself.  She opened her eyes, finding Spera’s large blue eyes looking over her worriedly.  “Spera, if the President doesn’t have the backing of the military, then this fleet has no chance.  This is very, very bad,” she whispered to the young nurse.

       “Ladies and Gentleman,” the young man behind the microphone addressed them, “The President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, Laura Roslin.”  The man quickly stepped back before scurrying to a small desk placed in the far left corner of the stage.

       She found herself craning her neck uncomfortably to see through the mass of people whom had immediately stood up.  Rebecca just now realized that the room was filled to capacity.  She guessed that at least 300 people were inside.  A woman in a gray suit emerged from the left side of the stage and confidently crossed to the center position.  Rebecca estimated she was in her mid-fifties.  She was tall with full, reddish-brown hair, and she wore glasses.

       Hours earlier, Rebecca’s morale had managed to plummet to depths never before reached after she had discovered that President Adar had been replaced by the Secretary of Education.  But to her surprise, the woman behind the podium was not the timid, overwhelmed, and scared school teacher that she had expected.  Her eyes, piercing through her glasses, told a very different story.  This woman was angry, that much was obvious.  But she was also crafty, strong, confident, and very, very intelligent.  Rebecca’s spirits boosted somewhat as she took her seat with the rest of the audience.  Hazarding a glance to her left, she caught Spera’s attention, and shot her a rare hopeful smile.

       “Ladies and Gentlemen,” her hands gripped the podium as if she had to hold it in place.  She scanned the crowd slowly from left to right, gauging the audience’s demeanor with her eyes.  “Early yesterday morning the Cylons launched a massive and unprovoked attack upon all twelve colonies and every satellite outpost.  I will let Commander Kronus address the specifics of the attack and the condition of our fleet.  Needless to say, the attack was unquestionably catastrophic.  Nuclear bombardments have made our home worlds unlivable, and we estimate that upwards of 49 billion souls were lost.”  She paused as the audience groaned in response to the number of casualties.  “Included in those killed are President Richard Adar, the entire Quorum of Twelve, and every member of the President’s cabinet, except for myself.  It is with a heavy heart that I have assumed the Presidency of the Twelve Colonies as required by the Order of Succession in the Articles of Colonization.”  She continued to hold her head high, as she waited for the crowd to settle.  “To the best of our knowledge, this fleet of 50,309 souls contains the last surviving members of not just our society, but of our species.”  This time she cut off the audience’s response, “This meeting is about our future, not our past,” she stated dramatically.  “With me at the table are; Bao-Hai Kronus, the Captain of the Cloud-9 and a retired Commander of the Colonial Fleet.  She has agreed to act as my military advisor.  Seated next to her is Mr. Wallace Gray, the founder of Aegle Health; he will be coordinating logistical efforts for the fleet.  On the left side of the table, the Priestess Elosha will be providing spiritual and moral guidance during these difficult times.  Seated at the end, I am sure you all recognize Dr. Gaius Baltar, he will be serving as my science and technology advisor.  Now if you would all bow your heads, Elosha will offer a prayer to the gods.”

       Rebecca watched the leaders more than she listened to the platitudes of regret and the plans to rebuild which they extolled to the audience.  But, she found herself sitting at the edge of her seat as the newly appointed President and then Commander Kronus spoke.  It was an odd pairing she thought; the modern, liberated, and idealistic president was a strong counter to the stoic and clearly conservative retired naval officer standing by her side.  She vacantly listened to the presentation and was pleasantly surprised by it.  It was a fairly informative, if not a vague, summation of the attack, the status of the colonies, and what they knew of the Cylons.  Her mind stopped however when they declared their intent to flee the colonies, effectively abandoning any survivors to the Cylons.  A flash of fury shot through her, and before she could think she shot up out of her seat.  Both the President and Wallace Gray were watching her intently.

       “You have some concerns, miss?” the President asked.  “If you would, tell us your name first,” she added coldly.

       She matched the president’s gaze, “I’m Rebecca Davenport, from the freighter Bill Thurston 12,” she stated clearly.  She waited as the President and Mr. Gray turned to each other, watching as the two silently acknowledged her identity between them.  She took a moment and when she was fully composed, she calmly addressed the two leaders.  “I believe it would be unfortunate if we left our surviving brothers and sisters to the Cylons without at least attempting a rescue.”  Relaxing slightly, she quietly sat down in her seat.

       Laura Roslin closed her eyes and bowed her head slightly as if she were physically struck.    Fully recovered, she faced the audience before quietly responding, “Thank you, Ms. Davenport.”   Laura spoke slowly and in a measured tone, “not only for bringing up such a delicate, and important concern, but also for putting your ship and crew at risk when you rescued the survivors from the Battlestar Promptus.”  She kept her eyes fixed on Rebecca as she continued, “Unfortunately, any attempt to rescue survivors from our home worlds at this point would be suicide.”  The President looked over the crowd critically before turning to her right, “Commander Kronus?”

       The President’s military advisor waited for the President to move aside, before she stepped to the podium.  “Thank you, Madam President.”  She looked down at the podium as she sorted through her notes.  “We have confirmed that every colony has a minimum of four Basestars stationed in orbit, Caprica has the most with eight.  We can also confirm that the Cylons have destroyed all major population centers and that they have landed ground troops on every home world.  Any remaining survivors at this point are spread out in small groups and have gone into hiding.  Additionally, survivors are battling the effects from radiation exposure.  Even if we could get sufficient forces to the ground to retrieve survivors, we would not have the time to find them, we don’t have the ships to get them off planet, and we don’t have the medical supplies or food to treat and feed them.  The Galactica is our last known remaining warship, and it is imperative that she remain with this fleet.”  The polished demeanor presented by the retired Commander dulled slightly as she sighed in resignation, “The Cylons have destroyed our homes, but they have not destroyed us.  The Sacred Souls tell us that ‘All of this has happened before, and it will all happen again.’”  The ship captain looked to the President for a moment, before continuing, “As our ancestors set off from a devastated Kobol in search of a new home thousands of years ago, so shall we.  We will take this fleet, and we will set off to find a new home for our children, and our children’s children.  We will find a new home which will provide us a safe and stable future, a place where we can rebuild our society in time.”  Looking slightly self-conscious, she turned away from the podium and quietly sat down.      

      The President resumed her place at the podium and looked over the crowd with a greater sense of confidence.  A tight smile pulling the corners of her mouth upwards, she nodded at her adviser, “Thank you, Commander, for your inspirational words.”  She turned back to the crowd, looking them over, “Ladies and Gentleman, our road is uncharted and treacherous, but if we stay together, we will prevail.  I have taken enough of your time already, thank you.”

       The crowd erupted in applause as the new President walked off the stage.  Rebecca clapped as well, although not with the same enthusiasm as her colleagues.  Instead, a single thought spread from the pit of her stomach through her core, seeping into every pore of her being.  They were doomed, if the military would not support her, they were doomed.  “Shit, now what?” she whispered quietly to herself.

 

 


	13. Battening the Hatches

_Galactica – Pilot Ready Room_

     Derek stood there, watching uneasily as his pilots quietly left the briefing room after the squadron meeting.  He had asked them to remain, if for no other reason than to put a name to the faces on his squadron roster.  The meeting was short and awkward.  The entire crew was still in shock, the pilots didn’t know him and they weren’t ready to follow him into combat.  Not yet at least.  He had hoped to get some time on the simulators, but they had been shipped off to the Picon Flight Academy before the Galactica’s decommissioning.  Now standing in the ready room by himself, he cursed quietly before heading through the hatch towards his rack.

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12- Hold 5_

     Rebecca stood in the Control Room, watching the frantic activity below her.  Commander Adama had sent over an engineering team just after the Fleet Organization Meeting an hour earlier.  The room had been cleared of the deceased and the life pods.  The crew’s first task, sealing the hold so that it could no longer open to space, had fundamentally changed the purpose of the compartment.  Currently, the service men and women were scrambling to convert the cargo hold into living quarters.  Four teams were setting up large green canvas tents throughout the hold, each designed to hold nine small cots.  In the middle of the room, a team was preparing a large assembly area, complete with bench seating and several large screen monitors.  Just aft of the assembly area large plastic wall panels were being connected to enclose a temporary bath and shower house for the refugees whom would soon be calling this compartment home.  The aft third of the former hold was now filled with hastily organized stacks of various construction materials.  Plumbing materials and cobbled together appliances in one area, aluminum braces and all forms of plastic, wood, cloth, and metal sheeting in another, and at the far wall,  the largest stack of cots and flimsy mattresses that she had ever seen.  She let her eyes sweep across the vast cargo bay one last time, whistling quietly in awe at the pace of progress on her ship.  Finally relenting to her duties on the bridge, she pushed open the heavy door and turned to leave.

_Battlestar Galactica - Pilot Quarters_

     Derek returned to find his bunk, the top one in a column of three, in the same condition that he left it.   Opening his locker, he transferred the few personal items he had from the small bag on his cot and into the shelf below the hanging duty uniforms and off duty clothes.   He opened the last item, a thin manila folder on his bed and carefully pulled out one copy of the two pictures he had printed out since arriving on the Galactica.  Holding the pictures gingerly, he looked around for a tape dispenser.  Finding one, he climbed into his rack and with the lightest of touches, posted the pictures to wall adjacent to the lone LED light.  He lay down on the bed and looked at them.  Closing his eyes, he tentatively reached towards one.  His eyes opened as his fingers softly brushed the first photograph.  Staring at it peacefully, he began to slowly trace the outline of his daughter, then his wife.  He traced it a few times before moving to the second picture.  It was an old photograph, on it a scrawny and awkward pre-adolescent kid had his arms wrapped around a massive Southern White Bulldog.  Smiling slightly as he poked the image of the dog, he quietly said to the picture, “I’ll never get away from you, will I?” 

     After spending a few moments pondering how to spend his time, he hopped off the bed in one smooth motion.  Reaching into the shelf in his locker, he removed his small tablet computer and headed towards one of the desks in the back.  Sitting down at the small chair, he connected the device to the computer built into the wall.  He opened his newly created personal account on the ship and spent the next thirty minutes reviewing and transferring various files onto the ship’s mainframe.  When he was finished, he reviewed the slideshow of 30 or so pictures that he arranged in a separate file.  Satisfied with the results, he picked up his tablet and headed out of the bunk room to print them out.

_Battlestar Galactica – Crew Assembly Area_

     Airman First Class John Taylor stood uncomfortably at attention with the ninety or so other misplaced soldiers in the large assembly area.  The ship’s X.O., a tall balding man, was barking at them angrily.  He suspected that Col. Tigh was like the other mercurial blowhards that he had had to suffer through in previous years.  They were all the same, incompetent marionettes trying to cover their insecurity thru yelling and bluster.  After a few minutes, the X.O.’s tirade ended and the soldiers were ordered to stand at ease.  As Col. Tigh stormed out of the compartment, a young lieutenant replaced the Executive Officer.  She was in her twenties and pretty, with light brunette locks arranged in a frisky pixie cut.  She placed a list on the podium and began assigning soldiers within the group to vacancies on the ship by department.  John had let his attention slip as the list of names was mechanically read aloud; consequently, he almost missed it when the Lieutenant had assigned him to a post in the Gunnery section. 

     Turning to his left, he carefully made his way through the crowd towards the assembly area off the side of the room.  He approached the N.C.O. in charge, an intimidating dark skinned man, and immediately came to attention.  “John Taylor, sir.  Permission to speak freely, sir.”

     “At ease,” the Petty Officer fixed him with an aggravated expression.  “And what is your problem with this posting, Airman?”

     John swallowed nervously, and nearly braced to attention in response to the sarcastic rebuke from his new C.O.  “Ughh, no problem, sir,” he paused slightly, “It’s just that I’m a cook, sir.” 

     His new C.O. cracked a smile at his nervousness.  “Good, I know who to call when I’m hungry.”  His smile faded and the Petty Officer responded with a soft and nasally accent that he couldn’t place.  “You’re a Gunnery Tech, now.  I suppose Galactica’s got plenty of cooks, seeing that it’s a museum ship.  If that’s all, why don’t you go stand with the others.”

     “Yes, sir,” John responded before turning towards the small group of soldiers standing against the wall.  While waiting silently with his fellow Gunnery recruits, his face froze in shock as he heard four of his crewmates called to fill vacancies in the Battlestar’s kitchens.  He looked over at his new C.O., who returned his look of confusion with a shake of his head and a sarcastic grin.  Within a few minutes the Lieutenant had finished assigning the rest of the Promptus’s survivors to their new posts, dismissing them to their barracks and then to attend to their new duties. 

_Cylon Basestar J529 – High Orbit, Planet Ragnar_

     Alexei remained in the stream as his brothers and sisters scurried around him.  He was much less concerned about the battle yet to come than he was about the circumstances which had led the Colonial fleet, and ultimately these two Basestars, to this remote end of the star system.  Foremost on his mind was determining what had happened to Leoben Conoy, a fellow Two whom had been stationed at the space station they were now blockading. 

     It had taken the collective a painstaking long time to confirm that his brother had died.  The transmission sent by the agent at the time of his passing had been damaged by the radiation generated by the planet.  Ultimately, the resurrection process had been aborted.  Alexei, mourned the loss of his brother. What a waste, he silently lamented. 

     The Cylons had only discovered this station within the last three years and had hurried to get an agent on board.  When the first agent returned to the collective she had reported that the station was abandoned.  The others, his model included, were relieved to determine that the station had been decommissioned, but had overlooked the fact that their agent had returned sick from radiation poisoning.   It was decided a month before the attack, that a new agent should be sent to monitor the station.  A sister of the first agent, an Eight, reminded the collective of the danger posed by the radiation, and that they should more carefully study it’s affects before sending one of their brothers or sisters into harm’s way.  The Two’s had agreed with the Eight’s.  Although they had argued passionately, the others led by the boorish One’s, had out voted them.  Leoben had been assigned the mission, likely out of spite for defying the majority in the vote.  As the final attack neared, the collective began receiving reports from every one of their agents spread throughout the colonies; everyone except for the Two which had been assigned to Ragnar Anchorage.  Overwhelmed by the number and detail of the reports which they were receiving, the collective did not notice the absence from the long abandoned space station at the edge of the Colonies.  Indeed, the collective had forgotten both Ragnar Anchorage and the agent assigned there. 

     It was ironic, Alexei thought, that the Cylon’s had discovered the Colonial’s refuge, not through one of the hundreds of agents that they deployed throughout their enemies homes, but through the careful and painful examination of a few prisoners that they collected after the battle.  It took quite a few prisoners, but finally, after carefully examining a well-placed prisoner from the Battlestar Triton, the Cylons became convinced that the Galactica was attempting to reorganize the Colonials shattered forces at the old fortress.  A message had been sent to their agent at the station, it went unanswered, a second message was sent.  When this message too, went unanswered, the collective began scanning the system more carefully.  It was during this period that they detected a weak signal from their agent.

     Alexei refocused on the small and disjointed pieces that he had collected within the stream.  He had been tasked with combing the stream for any corroborative evidence on the size and disposition on the forces hiding in the planet’s atmosphere.  Ultimately, he realized it was useless.  Any transmissions from the now deceased agent had been so corrupted that they were now unintelligible.  His siblings commanding this task force would only be able to rely upon the intelligence extracted from the tortured prisoners.  Intelligence which was contradictory at best and more than likely, misleading.  Slowly, he organized all the reports together, carefully assembling the data into a single coherent portrait.  Finally complete he gingerly left the stream to join the others at the control center.      

     Alexei closed his eyes and took a steadying breath as his consciousness returned to his physical body.  His mind and body settled, he opened his eyes to find a One staring at him. 

     “Well?” the One barked at him aggressively, contempt dripping off his weathered face.

     Alexei paused briefly, and took a moment to scan the room.  Members of each model were gathered and waiting quietly. 

     “Whenever you’re ready, Two” a platinum blonde Model Three with hard and bitter eyes snarled at him.  

     Alexei responded to his impetuous sister with a forced smile before addressing the small cabal of human form Cylons in the room.   “I’m afraid I was unable to glean any new information from the agent assigned to this station.  Intelligence gathered from the captured prisoners suggests that as many as six Battlestars, including the Pegasus, the Mercury and the Atlas, with the majority of her battlegroup, joined the Galactica at Ragnar.  However, intercepted Colonial transmissions report that all named ships, with the exception of the Galactica were destroyed in our initial assault.  My analysis of the combined intelligence suggests that at most two Battlestars, accompanied by a few support vessels were able to regroup with the Galactica at the station.” 

     “That’s it?!” an enraged One lashed out, angry droplets of spittle flew freely from his thin lips.  “Three hours in the stream!  Three hours we have been sitting here on our asses while the Colonials have no doubt been preparing.  And all you have is worthless guesses!”    

     Alexei turned to face the irate One, he fixed him with a pleasant, paternal expression, “The radiation generated by the planet caused irreparable damage to not only the agent assigned to the station, but to any transmission sent as well.  There is no way to positively determine the number and condition of ships which have joined with the Galactica.”

     The One stood there, glaring at the smug Model Two.  He scoffed loudly, before turning to the others in the room.  “Well, I think we have wasted enough time here.”  He focused his attention on the angry Model Three, “Launch the Raiders, it’s time we ended this.”

     The Three smiled viciously as she turned away from the group and slid her hands into a small basin on the wall.

     “Wait”, the deep voice of a tall Model 4 called out.  He focused on the Three and waited for her to withdraw her hands from the basin.  “There is no reason to attack now, we have the Colonials trapped.  All that is needed is to keep them pinned in the upper atmosphere and wait for reinforcements, if they are even needed.”  His thoughts now shared, he quietly stepped back to the periphery of the room, softly melting into the smooth dark surfaces at the edge.

     “I agree,” a sharp and confident voice called out from a smartly dressed Model Eight.   “Those in favor of attacking the Colonials at this outpost, vote now.”

     The One turned his head back and forth menacingly as he surveyed his fellow Cylon brothers and sisters.  To his aggravation, only the arrogant Model Three had joined with him to attack the human plague immediately.  “Fine; have it your way,” he snarled at the group.  “But there will be hell to pay, if any of those bastards gets away.”  The meeting concluded and the angry One turned on his heel and stormed out of the command center. 

 

_Battlestar Galactica - Air Wing Recreation Area_

     Derek sat down at the table with a glass of iced tea while he waited for a hand of cards to be dealt to him.  He looked across the table at his new wingman, a tall and broad shouldered man of Tauron descent.  He found Joel Ortega looking back at him, his dark brown eyes measuring his new C.O.

     “Glad you could join us, Captain,” he called across the table.

     Derek nodded his head in acknowledgement, “No ranks’ here.”  He looked at his hand and quickly shuffled the six hexagon shaped cards from highest to lowest.  “Don’t worry; I won’t make a habit of it.”

     “Afraid we’ll take all your money, sir?”  A small enlisted woman with striking red hair offered mockingly.

     He sat his cards face down, before responding, “I don’t have money anymore.” He paused as a vision of Chief Jung flashed in his mind, “I don’t think any of us do, now,” he finished soberly. 

     “Don’t worry about money, we’ll find something to take from you, sir,” one of the other players offered.  With that, he slid over a small bag of loose rivets.  “These will have to do for now,” he said.

     Derek emptied the bag next to his cards and thanked him. He was also young and enlisted.

     “Captain, since your new here, why don’t you start?”  A cool voice appealed to him from his left side, it belonged to one of his pilots. 

     “I thought we dropped ranks here,” he looked down at his hand, it was pretty shabby. He swapped two cards from the deck.  He sighed slightly as he sorted them into his hand, they weren’t much better than his previous cards.  “The bet is three,” he announced as he slid three rivets to the center of the table. 

     “So, what do we call you?” asked the young enlisted woman.

     “Derek, or Green-Bean,” he replied.

     The rest of the players, now studying their cards all grunted in acknowledgment.  The game was fast, and before long Derek was nearly out of rivets.  He was more concerned about getting a feel for the ship and her crew than he was about the game in front of him.  Derek had assumed that Adama, over-bearing and focused earlier in his career, would have run his ship as the stern task master that he remembered.  Instead, he found the crew loose and collegial in their interactions, there seemed to be little distinction between the officers and the crew.

     “Hey Green-Bean, you awake?”  A woman’s voice called out from his right side.

     “Racetrack, right?” he responded. 

     “Yup,” she paused, staring him down, “Now, can you just fold so we can get on with the game, please?”

     He looked down at his cards again, grunting quietly, he selected one and dumped it into the discard pile.  He tried not to react as he slid the new face card into the fold.  Knowing that he had already tipped his hand, he tried a different tact.  With a smug expression on his face, he looked up at his fellow pilot, “Sorry, Racetrack.  I think I’m going to play this hand out.”  He matched the previous bet of three rivets, then after a dramatic pause, he continued, “In fact, I think I will rise by five.”

     A chorus of cat-calls came from the other players, and several folded on the spot.  Joel stared across the table at Derek, “Alright, Green – Bean” he said, drawing out the Captain’s call-sign, “I’ll match, and I call.”  He deliberately slid five rivets into the pot.  He pushed himself back, flipping his cards over for all to see as he sat up straight. “Read ‘em and weep! Prince High Red!” he called out confidently.

     “I got nothing,” Racetrack announced, flipping over six random cards.

     Derek sat up straight, mockingly tilting his head up towards the young man.  “Oh, to be young and cocky,” he beamed.  He held his cards up for a moment before flipping them over one by one.  When his hand was revealed, he smugly announced, “And that gentleman, is known as Full Colors.”  He reached forward to grab his pile of worthless rivets, when suddenly the speakers exploded in sound above him.

     A man’s voice called out, “All pilots report to the Squadron Ready room; repeat, all pilots report to the Squadron Ready room.”

     Leaving his rivets at the center of the table, Derek abruptly stood up.  “Racetrack, Ace, Red-Bird, let’s go,” he ordered.  Reaching the hatch first, he held it open as the three pilots passed through before following them to the squadron briefing.

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12; Bridge_

     "Captain, I have an incoming laser transmission from the Galactica,” Marel called across the cramped bridge.

     “Put it on speaker,” Rebecca replied, casually spinning her chair to face her young second mate.

     “Can’t do, Skipper.  Message is coded your eyes only.”

     “Patch it through to my station,” she answered dryly.  Rebecca spun her chair to face her monitor.  She only had to wait a moment for the message to come through.  Her confusion deepened as she read the text in front of her, finishing it, she shook her head and read it a second time.  Sighing loudly, she transferred the data packet to the Navigation Table in the aft portion of the compartment.  Pushing herself out of her seat, she stomped to the station where she brought the message up.   Gripping the tabletop tightly, she braced herself and leaned over the glass counter-top to read the message a third time.

 

     Captain Davenport:

Please calculate jump coordinates for the indicated system on the attached chart.  When complete, return the coordinates to me personally by laser                transmission.  This communication, the chart, and any coordinates which you determine are classified as top secret and are not to be shared with anyone until you are directed to do so by me personally.

William Adama, Commander

Commanding Officer, Battlestar Galactica, BSG-75

 

     She was about to open the star charts, when she felt a presence hovering just behind her.  She whirled to her left, locking her sharp brown eyes with the dull blue ones of her first mate.

     That’s this about, Captain?” Parah asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

     “Do you mind?” she asked with an incredulous tone in her voice. 

     “Well, I figured, that I should know whatever, uh,” he stammered as he wilted under her fierce expression.  Attempting to recover, he stiffened briefly, “Well, I am the first officer, dammit!” he insisted.

     Rebecca admonished him with an exasperated voice, “Parah, go down to Hold Five and try to keep those Sea-Bees from making too big of a mess down there.” 

     “Yes, ma’am,” he responded.  Spinning on his heel, he made his way through the small hatch at the back of the compartment.

     Rebecca grimaced slightly as she stared at the closed hatch for a few moments.  Slowly turning her attention back to the Navigation Table, she brought the star charts up for examination.  She stared blankly at the charts for several seconds, initially trying to get her bearing on the map, and after that, confirming the positions of the stars in front of her.  This has to be a fracking joke, she thought, looking at the star chart for the fifth time.  The point indicated on the map was located deep in the Prolmar Sector.  An unexplored region of space; and well beyond the safe range for any existing Faster-Than-Light Navigation systems.  Cursing to herself, she quietly grabbed several transparencies and began calculating the coordinates for the impossibly far away system highlighted on the map.  It took her an hour to determine an initial set of coordinates.  She then spent another twenty minutes refining the variables in her equations before she was satisfied with the solution which lay on the transparency in front of her.  Gritting her teeth, she set the Nav-Computer to simulation mode, and carefully typed in the coordinates which she had developed.  She nervously waited, tapping her thumb on the smooth surface of the table as she waited for the station to complete its own tabulations.  Then to her relief, she watched as the screen revealed a star chart complete with a bright blinking circle indicating the same target system which had been sent by the Galactica earlier.  Smiling, she stretched her back and neck, “Marel, get me a laser transmission to the Galactica.”  With a hop in her step, she made her way to her chair and lightly sat down while clipping her headset on.

 

_Battlestar Galactica – Squadron Ready Room_

     The four pilots arrived to find the Ready Room about one third full.  Starbuck, whose face and hair was covered in a sheen of sweat and grease had also just arrived from her recon flight.  She was in the forward corner of the room, quietly conferring with Lee, Hotshot, Cat-Bird, and Duck at a computer station.  Derek paused at the hatch just long enough to catch the attention of Captain Adama, who quickly motioned for him to join them. 

     He quietly greeted the four officers as he approached them at the station, “Captain, Lieutenants,” before cursorily scanning the screen in front of him. 

     “Derek,” Lee returned with an anxious tone.  Turning to face the new arrival, the Captain looked him over before hastily returning his attention to the screen. 

     Derek focused on the screen which was displaying a tactical view of the immediate space just outside the planet’s atmosphere.  Two Cylon Basestars and what looked like an infinite number of Cylon Raiders were swarming the space just above the planet.  “Oh shit,” Derek muttered upon examining the data screen.

     Lee chose to ignore the Captain’s remarks; instead he turned to face his senior pilots.  “Well as you can see, the Cylons have found us,” he stated plainly.  “Currently, two Basestars and an estimated 600 Raiders are maintaining a blockade formation 5,000 km above the planet’s Thermosphere.”   Lee waited as the pilots studied the data on the screen in front of them, all quietly cursing their fate as they contemplated the overwhelming odds waiting above them.    

     It was Kara who broke the silence, with a hint of impatience she asked, “So what’s the plan, Captain?”

     Lee took a quick breath, “The plan is simple, we’re leaving and we are going to take the civilians with us.”  He held his hands up to silence any comments from the pilots surrounding him.  Turning back to the screen, he grabbed a light pen and started a simulation of the planned armed retreat.   “Galactica will lead the civilians through the storm to this point, where they will wait for a signal.  Tapping the highlighted course with the pen, he continued, “The Galactica will press through the storm to this point, 5 klicks above the electromagnetic interference from the planet, here she will calculate a start point for an FTL jump.  When the Galactica has completed the computations for the jump, she will signal the civilian ships to emerge from the storm and jump away.   The Galactica will provide cover for the civilian ships as they break out of the atmosphere and jump to the rally point.  Our mission is to provide air support for the Galactica and the civilian fleet.   Galactica will establish a flack perimeter at 500 km, we will engage any Cylon Raiders between 1,000 km and 3,000 km while the civilian ships escape.  After the last civilian ship has jumped we will be recalled for immediate combat landings.  The flight pod is going to be a hot mess; we will have very little time so make sure your pilots get back to the ship as fast as they can and to expect a crowded deck.  Once the landing bays are secure the Galactica will jump.”  His presentation finished, he paused to take a look at his sober-faced pilots.  “Any questions?” he asked.

     Hot-Shot nervously raised his hand, “Sir, how are 54 Vipers supposed to hold off over 600 Raiders?”

     Lee looked up at the man.  Meeting Hot-Shots eyes, he could see the fear in his expression.  Grimly, the young Captain replied, “Bravely, Lieutenant.”

     The meeting had taken on the air of a funeral, and Derek knew he had to break the malevolent cloud that hung over the five officers.  He coughed quietly to get their attention, “The better question is how long do we have to hold off the Raiders?”

     Silently thanking Derek for the change in direction, Lee immediately picked up where he let off.  “Five minutes, ten at the most.  Plus, the Galactica’s guns have full magazines; they will be able to cut down the number of Raiders significantly before we clear the flack screen.”  He looked over his pilots one last time, their moods buoyed compared to a few moments before.  “Any last questions?” he asked.

     It was Duck who spoke up this time, “Yeah, boss.  Where are we going?” he asked, almost casually.

     “That’s classified.  Just make sure you get your ass back in the barn before she jumps,” Lee replied easily.  “Alright, grab your seats.”

     Derek turned with the other pilots and headed towards the now full briefing room.  Pausing to look at the crowd, he saw his wingman indicate an empty seat next to him.  He crossed the space between them, “Thanks, Ace,” he grunted as he sat down.  The briefing went quickly, and Derek spent the time gauging the reactions of his pilots to the sobering challenge they were about to take up.  His pilots on the Odin had an almost maniacal need to be the first to fight at Virgon, to get retribution for the atrocities committed earlier that day.  A desire for revenge that he had both felt and had stoked into a fiery passion.  A passion which had consumed his pilots before their lost battle.  This briefing was different, the pilots were confident and up to the task, but their rage had been tempered by their previous battle, by the losses suffered earlier.  And now, their fury had been replaced with the grim knowledge that many of them would be joining their lost loved ones.  Lastly, he noted, he felt the change in him to.


	14. Into the Wind

_Battlestar Galactica – Port Flight Pod Turret 5_

     John, or ‘Pancake’, as his new C.O. called him, climbed nervously into the sunken leather seat from where he would control the anti-aircraft gun.  He fidgeted uncomfortably in his pressure suit as a technician helped to strap him in.  Reaching forward he took the small oxygen cylinder from the man assisting him.  He paused to look it over carefully, noting that the gauge on top showed that the tank was full before stowing it in the slot behind him on the left side of his chair.  The air tank didn’t provide any relief.  He couldn’t imagine surviving if his turret were shot up, and if he did, the thought of dangling outside of the ship, tethered to the hull by a thin lanyard, was not comforting.

     His gun was not one of the massive anti-ship cannons that lobbed fiery charges of compressed annihilation at the enemy warships above. Nor was it one of the over-sized flack guns which could wipe a score of enemy fighters from the sky with one scattered shot.  When an enemy fighter or missile slipped through and there was nothing between its wrath and the ship, Pancake’s gun was the sentinel which watched over.  His weapon was a close range gun, fast and nimble; it could track the fastest fighter and put rounds on the smallest target. 

     Pancake’s gun was specifically tasked with protecting the vital port flight pod from the enemy.  Mounted by thick pylons, the flight pods hung exposed below and to the sides of the secondary hull, this had made them a favorite target for Cylon attackers during the first war.  They were the most vulnerable section of the sturdy Battlestars and the most dangerous to work on as well. 

     Home to the ship’s air wing, the flight pods were responsible for launching and collecting space-craft both approaching and departing at dizzying speeds.  Equally important, they also served as the life lines for the massive warship, stockpiling the highly flammable fuel and ordinance needed for flight operations as well as conveying all the needed materials and spent waste between the supply depots outside and the hungry machines which ran the ship; be they mechanical or biological.  The defense of the port pod was made even more crucial by the fact that the Galactica had just this one, as the conversion of the starboard pod into a museum had been recently completed. 

     John had been surprised at the ease of which he had been able to grasp the simulators; he had been even more surprised when he had been assigned to this particular gun.  This gun required not only a master able to discern foe from friend and decoy in the blink of an eye, but also the reflexes and coordination to guide the rounds so only that specific target would feel the fury from the electro-magnetic rails which he sat between.  His scores on the screening test had been exceptionally high.  Questioning the results, his new C.O. had put him through the simulator an additional five times, all with similar results.  Before the fall, only the best gunners with months, if not years of training would be entrusted with this last line of defense.  But now, with humanity on the fringe and the Galactica without trained gunners, John tested as the best option available. 

     With an abrupt lurch, his chair began to climb the narrow tube to the firing position located on the outside of the hull.  Sweating profusely, he took a steadying breath, and adjusted his grip on the firing yolk while trying to ignore the grating call to “Action Stations”.  His trek to the surface took just moments, and before he was ready his seat came to a sudden stop in front of a thick metal hatch. The door remained closed for a second before the iris rapidly spun open.  The seat pushed forward before coming to a jerky stop.  Catching his breath, he looked through the clear armored canopy in front of him.  The churning green clouds and charges of lightning crossing the horizon were not at all re-assuring.  More than ever, he wanted to crawl back to the blissfully ignorant safety of the kitchens, deep in the bowels of the ship below.

     “Pancake, this is Bingo,” his C.O.’s voice crackled through his headset.  “It won’t be long now, you ready for this?” he asked in a supportive tone.

     “Yes, sir.  As ready as I’m gonna be, I guess,” he answered nervously.

     “We’re in our holes now, so call me Bingo,” his C.O. responded.

     “Yes, sir, I mean, Bingo, sorry,” he stammered.

     “Pancake, look over at the turret to your right for a second.” he called out strongly.

     John spun his gun to the right, centering on a similar bubble canopy projecting out of the flight pod hull.  He adjusted the zoom on the H.U.D. and brought his C.O.’s face into focus, he looked surprisingly relaxed.  “I see you,” he called out.

     “Good.  John, this is just like the simulators and you’re gonna do fine,” he stated.  “Between the two of us, I guarantee not a single fracking thing is going to get by, and before you know it we’ll be having drinks at the mess when this is all over.  Alright,” he finished brashly.

     “Yes sir,” John answered back with a confidence that he didn’t quite feel.

_Freighter_ _Bill Thurston 12 – Bridge_

     Seated in the center chair, Rebecca’s back was braced rigidly at attention as she scanned the forward DRADIS screen in front of her.  The BT-12 was the third in line behind the Galactica, and would be one of the first ships to face the Cylons.  Her ship would also be one of the first to jump, she reminded herself.  She needed to calm down she thought, as she caught herself absently tightening her seat restraints again.  She looked around the bridge noting the palpable tension shared by the crew.  Marel looked the worst, his face was gray, his jaw was closed tight, and if she looked closely enough, she figured that she would see the muscles in his neck clenched in apprehension.  “Marel, if you grip that console any tighter you’re going to leave divots,” she called out, trying to lighten the mood.

     “Sorry, Skipper,” he replied quietly.

     “Shit,” she breathed out.  “Listen up, everyone.”  She waited for the bridge crew to turn to her.  She took a moment to gather herself, quickly looking at each crew member individually.  “Look, we gotta do this.  We have to push through this atmo and the fracking Cylons who are waiting above for us.  We have no choice, so we are going to get it done.  And no amount of worrying, or second-guessing, or wishing it was otherwise is going to change that.  So let’s all loosen up, myself included.  Think happy thoughts, and let’s get the hell out of here as fast as we fracking can. Okay?”

     “Yes, ma’am,” the crew responded discordantly.

     The bridge crew seemed to relax after her pep talk and they mostly ignored the constant shaking the ship experienced as they pushed through the corridor.  There had been one deep and violent shudder, which no doubt caused many in the ship to panic, but overall their trek towards the edge of space went by without incident.

     “We are at the rally point, set thrusters to station keeping.” Marel voice called out nervously.

     The helmsman’s fingers flashed across his console as he set the ship’s engines to hold the massive freighter in place.  “Ship is reading all stop, Ma’am,” he finally reported to Rebecca.

     “Thank you, John.”  She looked over at Marel, he at least seemed to be holding it together, “How are we on the coms, Mr. Banner?”

     Marel’s eyes darted to the communication portion of his station, “All boards green, we have a firm connection with Galactica’s laser transmitter.”

     “Good.”  She studied the DRADIS screen in front of her.  Closing her eyes briefly, she said a silent prayer as she watched the lone Battlestar, hopelessly outgunned, push towards the Cylon Basestars waiting for them.  “John, be ready to push out at flank speed as soon as we get the word from the Galactica.”

     “Aye, Ma’am.  Engineering reports full power ready as needed,” the helmsman responded soberly.

     “Marel, status of the FTL?” she demanded.

     Marel looked down to check his console, his fingers dancing over the computer in front of him.  “Faster-Than-Light Drive board is green, terminal jump point is entered and verified in the navigation computer, waiting for primary jump point coordinates from Galactica,” he reported.

     “Thank you, Marel.”  Frustrated by the inactivity, she turned to her first mate, “Parah, how are our passengers holding up?”

     He shrugged his shoulders, “No word from Hold-5.  The compartment is reading air tight and in good condition.  I’m sure I would have heard if there was a problem.” 

     Her lips pulled into a frustrated smile at his response, “Why don’t you call down there and find out for sure.”  Rebecca watched him lean back in his chair, casually picking up the phone a moment later.  All she could do now was sit and wait for the coordinates from the Galactica.  She was not good at waiting.

 

_Battlestar Galactica -_ _Port Flight Pod Turret 5_

     The constant shaking had finally stopped allowing John to relax slightly for the first time since the Galactica began the arduous trek through the planet’s turbulent atmosphere.  The view from his turret was truly inspiring, the swirling clouds and strobe like charges of lightning were behind them and now he had an unobstructed view of the heavens surrounding him.  His eyes wide open; he slowly tried to take in the vastness of the cosmos before him.  Losing himself in the moment, he quietly extolled, “My gods, it’s full of stars!”

     His headset sputtered to life immediately, shaking him from his reverie, “Pancake, get your head in the game, man,” Bingo called out impatiently.

     “Yes, sir, I’m here,” he hurriedly responded.  “It’s just, well; I’ve never seen the stars like this before, sir.”

     “Felt the same way you do, first time I looked out the bubble,” he offered in support.  “Course, I wasn’t looking down the barrels of two Cylon Basestars, neither,” he added cautiously.

     John turned his head from left to right and back again, scanning the skies for their deadly opponents.  He panicked momentarily, before suddenly remembering to check the DRADIS scanner in front of him.  Clear as a bell, two red icons flashed steadily on the screen.  Holding the high ground, the two Basestars waited patiently, daring the Battlestar trapped between them and the planet below to try and break out. 

     Undaunted, the Galactica continued to push out from the planet.  A moment later, John’s headset beeped in alarm.  Looking at the DRADIS display, a delicate red cloud began to stream away from the enemy warships.  Too numerous to count, his computer immediately identified them as Cylon Raiders.  John stared at the DRADIS screen a moment longer, nervously swallowing a small bit of bile.

     “Get ready.” Bingo called out to the gunners under his command.

     A different voice sounded through the headset, it was harsh and angry, John recognized it as Colonel Tigh’s, “All batteries, commence firing.”

     A moment later the ship began to vibrate, John’s entire body was shaking in time with the incessant drone of the guns, and his body jerked as the heavy cannons began rhythmically thumping at the enemy above.  All at once, the sky above him erupted in a spectacular firework display.  John sat in his chair motionless, his eyes were fixed on the pyrotechnics in front of him.  Shaking his head, he looked down at the DRADIS screen and watched as the swarm of Raiders continued to wind their way towards the Galactica.  Like a school of fish, they twisted and coiled in a complicated dance, attempting to confound the Galactica’s powerful DRADIS array as they approached their quarry.

 

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

     Stretched like a serpent, the swarm of Cylon Raiders wound a twisting and convoluted path towards the Colonial warship emerging from the planet below.  Positioned near the latter third of the finger, Raider D3174T76H followed impossibly close to the Raider in front of it.  The Raider’s three wing-men flew just behind and to the side, matching it’s every move.   The fighter tracked the forward most strike groups with powerful sensors, impatiently waiting for the battle to begin.  Hiding in the upper atmosphere an irregular human fleet waited for the aging Battlestar to position itself so that it could screen the fleeing civilian ships.  It would not matter, in a few moments the lead strike force would activate the computer virus hidden in the Colonial warships, rendering them defenseless against the coming assault. 

     A short data burst signaled D3174T76H that the computer virus had been transmitted to the enemy below.  Simultaneously, its chronometer began to countdown to the virus’s activation.  In response, the Raider tightened its sensor focus on the Colonial pestilence below, relishing the fact that its enemies would be powerless in less than 30 seconds.  It would have smiled if possible as the clock reached zero.  Suddenly, the sky in front of the rushing fighters exploded in brilliant fireworks.  The Colonial Battlestar had not lost power as expected; instead, it was standing tall and was hurling countless rounds of anti-aircraft fire at the attacking Cylons.   Raider D3174T76H watched with alarm as the first few waves of its brothers were annihilated by the Battlestar’s powerful anti-aircraft guns.

 

_Battlestar Galactica -_ _Port Flight Pod Turret 5_

     Finally, they were within reach of the Galactica’s guns.  There was no pause, they didn’t waver, if anything, they seemed even more determined.  The Galactica’s cannons cut thru them without remorse, wiping away 15 or 20 of them per shot.  It was as if the Raiders had flown into a wall, their hulls suddenly exploding en masse into brilliant plumes of confetti.  For a moment, the wave of Raiders seemed to falter, their head-long charge stalled.  But they were undeterred; they continued to throw themselves bodily into the volleys of fire shot out by the stalwart Battlestar.  Singly at first, then in pairs and in threes, the determined Raiders began to slip through gaps in the curtain of flack shielding the Galactica.

     A new signal appeared on John’s DRADIS screen, twenty four bright white triangles raced away from the Galactica in an uneven formation.  A minute later his DRADIS sounded again as the second squadron of Vipers shot out of the Galactica, chasing after their brothers, rushing to meet the enemy ahead. 

 

_Viper 6057_

     Derek shifted his shoulders, adjusting himself slightly within the straps that held him fast to the seat of his fighter.  Below and to his left, his wing-man Ace trailed him in a covering position.  He glanced at his DRADIS screen, noting that his squadron had closed the gap slightly behind Captain Adama’s unit.  Behind him, the remaining six Vipers had just sallied forth from the Galactica’s launch tubes, their engines screaming at full burn as they raced to link up with the two main groups.

     “Galactica Tactical, incoming seventy-two, repeat 7-2 Cylon Raiders CBDR at one-two-zero mark four-eight,” Lt. Gaeta, called out in a rush.

     A light tone sounded softly in Green-Bean’s headset, calling his attention to the DRADIS screen in front of him.  Captain Adama’s squadron, the Vigilantes, would be making contact with the enemy momentarily.

_Viper 7242_

     Leading the charge against the surviving Raiders was the Galactica’s recently appointed CAG, Captain Lee Adama, call-sign Apollo.  He tightened his straps across his chest as he readied himself for the coming onslaught.  Toggling his microphone, he called out to his pilots, “Broken formation, Razzle-Dazzle, don’t let ‘em use their targeting computers!  And for frack’s sake, stay out of Galactica’s firing solution!”

     Derek watched as the Vipers Apollo led shifted their formation in response to their leader’s directions.  It was a good plan; the strategy relied on pilots working as pairs independently from other members of the team, each pair guarding a specific sector of space. 

     With a hiss of static, Derek’s headset called out again, and the silky voice of the ship’s com officer calmly passed on the Commander’s final orders, “Galactica to Air-Wing, Vipers engage fighters only.  Leave the Basestars to us.”

     He checked his DRADIS again, Apollo’s Vipers were practically on top of the incoming Raiders, his pilots splitting off in pairs as they sought to outmaneuver and engage the enemy.  Derek forced himself to ignore the melee in front of him as his squad approached the combat zone.  Concentrating on guiding his ship into the proper slot, he waited as the rest of his squadron adjusted their attitude to match his Viper. 

     “Green-Bean - Primus Squadron, all Vipers break in 3, 2, 1, Mark!” 

     He wrenched hard on his stick, his Viper curling up and away from his previous course.  The pilots of Primus squadron matched his maneuver, the effect being quite beautiful, as two by two, all of the Vipers curled out and to the left, simultaneously spinning apart from their previous course.  Green-Bean’s DRADIS was pinging madly; his turn had brought him pin-wheeling directly into a flight of Raiders above.   Depressing his trigger, he watched with equal parts fear and excitement as four Raiders exploded in front of him.  Then before he could blink, he flashed through the middle of the formation as the enemy fighters passed by, scant meters away.  The Cylon formation was utterly smashed and he watched with satisfaction as his wing-man chased down a lone Raider from above. 

     “This is Ace, I have good tone, Fox-1!” he called out. 

     Derek watched as a missile shot from underneath his wing-man’s plane quickly closing the distance to the Raider below.  He smiled slightly as the missile found its target and then consumed it in an explosive flare. 

     As the blaze died out Ace’s voice called out triumphantly, “Splash one!”

     Derek was about to congratulate his wing-man when a blip on the DRADIS caught his attention.  “Ace, 3 bandits coming from our eight o’clock low, hard to port, 3, 2, 1, Mark!”

     Bracing himself, he shoved the stick hard as he turned the Viper towards the oncoming enemy fighters, grunting as he reached the apex of the turn.  He inhaled deeply as he leveled out, his trigger finger already sending rounds ahead.   “Take the one on the right, I have the left one!” he called to his wing-man.  Adjusting his course slightly, he set his Viper into a roll as he charged the oncoming Raider head-on, his finger never leaving the trigger.  Seconds later his bullets rang true and the enemy fighter exploded in a blaze in front of him.  He was already pulling up on his stick, his plane spinning on its axis as he sailed below the blast zone.  His targeting computer immediately locked on the remaining Raider.  His turn complete, he pressed his thruster plate to the floor, his Viper’s backwards slide quickly slowing as his three main engines pushed his plane opposite its previous heading.  As he overcame the Viper’s inertia Green-Bean felt his plane lurch forward as if he were being shot from a cannon.  In front of him he watched the solitary Raider desperately attempt to maneuver out of his kill zone.  Derek smiled as he flipped open the safety on his stick, “This is Green-Bean, I have tone, Fox-1,” he called out calmly.  He watched as the missile shot straight away from below, his finger poised to let a second missile fly if needed.  At the last moment, the Raider jinked hard to starboard, spinning and climbing away from the warhead.  The missile adjusted to its target, turning into and slicing thru the wing before exploding, devouring its prey in a fleeting conflagration.  “Green-Bean, Splash 2 Raiders,” he reported with a predatory grin. 

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

     With what could only be considered concern, the Raider watched as the forward units of the strike force threw themselves bodily into the wall of flack, disintegrating impotently just beyond the reach of their weapons.  Approaching the artillery line, Raider D3174T76H chose a different fate.  Using its RCS thrusters, it pitched its nose 45 degrees up while spinning laterally 90 degrees to the right.  Engaging the main engines, the fighter shot like a top out of the formation, its three wing-men following closely after it.  Spinning around again, the four attackers approached the Colonial defenders from a different angle.  With their engines at full power, the attacking craft made for the edge of the flack field, catapulting themselves in a wild roll as they passed through the barrier.  It had been a narrow thing, but the Raider slipped through the unexpectedly thick flack screen.  A quick check revealed that its wing-men were not as lucky. 

     Returning to a stable course, the fighter immediately analyzed the battle taking place.  The attacker monitored a Colonial Viper doggedly chase down one of its brothers; seconds later the Raider exploded in a brilliant flash.  A hot anger that the Raider had never felt before began to burn as it changed course to pursue the murdering human.  D3174T76H closed the gap quickly between it and the loathsome human.  It took but a second to line the Viper for a kill, savoring its imminent victory, the fighter paused a moment before firing his cannons at the enemy.   To the Raider’s surprise the Viper rolled out of its sites at the last moment. 

_Viper 7242_

     “Apollo!  You’ve picked one up!” blasted through his com-system as he was completing his third barrel-roll.

     “You think?!” he yelled back sarcastically, as he pushed his plane through a complicated dive, easily avoiding his pursuer’s fire.  His maneuver had opened a small gap between him and the Cylon Raider, checking his DRADIS, he smiled viscously before activating his com’s in reply.  “Don’t worry, Red-Bird.  I got this guy right where I want him,” he stated coolly.  He pressed his stick down and to the left, then back to the right, before pulling his plane into a hard-vertical loop.

 

_Cylon Raider D3174T76H_

     The fighter stayed tight to the human’s tail, maddeningly filling the sky all around the enemy Viper with a steady stream of deadly bullets.  Much to the Raider’s frustration however, none of the shots fired connected with the nimble craft.  Suddenly, the Viper pulled into a tight looping arc in front of the attacker.  The sensation of victory surged through the Raider as it eagerly pulled into an even tighter loop, already relishing the kill it was about to make. 

     Without warning the underside of the Raider exploded in excruciating pain as a hail of bullets ripped across its surface.  Confused and angry, D3174T76H found the wicked Viper below it a moment later.  The initial pain from the attack had subsided.  The Raider tried to turn to engage the enemy, but was unable as the control systems were damaged.  D3174T76H watched as the Viper turned to attack, moments later, as its right wing was sheared off the Raider was consumed by a new, far more intense pain.  A nanosecond before its death Cylon Raider D3174T76H sent an automated transmission detailing its operational history to the Cylon home. 

 

_Viper 7242_

     Apollo couldn’t help but smile as he sailed through the destroyed Raider’s debris.  “This is Apollo, splash one Raider.” he called out easily.

_Freighter Bill Thurston 12- Bridge_

     Rebecca was sitting on the edge of her chair, impatiently waiting for the coordinates from the Galactica.  She cringed as the scanners reported another scorching hit to the Galactica’s thick skin.  Her eyes were glued to the DRADIS in the front of the compartment.  The Galactica’s flack cannons had been surprisingly effective, removing nearly 75 percent of the enemy’s fighters in the first few minutes of the battle.  Unfortunately, the situation had become significantly grimmer since the opening volley.  Reacting to the loss of the Cylon air-wing the Basestars had dispatched additional Raiders to replace the scores of fighters destroyed by the Battlestar’s guns.  Additionally, ship based missiles launched from the massive warships were now reaching their targets. 

     “Laser Transmission from Galactica!” Marel called out suddenly.  “Captain, I am receiving Primary Jump Coordinates.”

     Finally able to take action, Rebecca leaned forward in her chair, invigoration spreading throughout her.  “Marel, get those coordinates input,” she snapped to the navigator.  “Mr. Evans, make sure our heading does not intercept any ships in the fleet.  At my signal, engines to full, I want flank speed as quickly as possible.”

     The helmsman looked at her with determination on his face, “Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

     Rebecca grabbed the phone mounted to her chair; she forcefully depressed the button for ship wide coms.  “Attention all hands. We will be pushing out to the jump coordinates momentarily.  Be sure all loose gear is firmly stowed away, and brace yourselves for impacts and turbulence.  I will see you all on the other side,” she brusquely announced.  Rebecca roughly slapped the phone back into the base, her eyes having never left the forward DRADIS screen. 

     “All decks, all stations report ready, Skipper.” Parah stated calmly, any sign of fear had been carefully hidden from view.

     Rebecca watched as the two ships in front of them began moving forward.  “John, display our course projection,” she ordered the helmsman.

     Her ship, highlighted as a yellow triangle, began to blink, a moment later, a solid matching line extended from its tip towards space above.  Satisfied with the plotted course, Rebecca leaned forward in anticipation, “Very good.  Mr. Evans, engines at full, bring us to the jump point.”

     “Yes, ma’am.  Bringing engines to full power, 35 seconds to the jump point,” the helmsman declared resolutely.

Sitting back, Rebecca felt the engines roar to life behind her as she tightened her lap belt.  She could feel her body pressing further into her seat as the bulky freighter gained momentum.  She had never pushed her ship this hard and she could feel the ship vibrating under the exertion.  With a little concern, she cycled her computer to the engineering menu, quickly glancing at the status indicators.  To her relief, all of the boards were green and the monitor showed no anomalous readings. 

     The shaking got worse as the ship picked up speed, in her mind she could hear the ship groaning from the effort.  Concentrating on the DRADIS screen, Rebecca watched in horror as the Galactica continued to take hit after punishing hit.  She focused her attention on the long line of civilian ships behind her, all now moving forward, each ship on a separate vector to prevent a collision on the other side of the jump.  _We need to go faster_ , her mind screamed, concerned that the Galactica wouldn’t survive the onslaught.

     Rebecca cried out in alarm as the ship suddenly jerked up and to port.  She was violently thrown against the lap belt in her seat and was now hanging over the armrest, her hands clutching at her side in shock.  She quickly pushed herself back to an upright position before looking around the bridge.  “Report!” she bellowed.  She turned towards her first mate’s station, immediately noticing the shattered remains of his coffee mug on the deck.

     Parah answered hurriedly, his calm exterior from earlier now replaced with unease, “Cylon missile exploded off starboard ventral rear quarter.  All systems nominal, no damage,” he paused a moment, still gathering himself, “At least not to the ship, anyway,” he reported, a sheepish smile on his face.

     “Mr. Evans?”

     “Eight seconds!” he reported, without waiting for her to finish the question.

     “Shave that if you can, please,” she responded with a forced calm.  She watched as he concentrated at his console, his fingers were flying across the interface.

     “Already at maximum,” he reported dubiously.

     Silently pleading, Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on the DRADIS screen as they approached the jump point, maddeningly just in front of them.  The shaking was getting worse by the second and Rebecca began to wonder if they would reach the coordinates before her ship shook apart.

     Finally, Marel’s nervous voice shouted in anticipation, “Jumping, 3, 2, 1, Mark!”

     Rebecca felt the world collapse, her body painfully compressing from all sides as she and her ship were violently squeezed through the fabric of space and time.  Suddenly released from the pressure of the jump, Rebecca opened her eyes, gasping in relief.  She sat completely still as she gathered herself from the rough transit.  Fully composed, she opened her eyes and slowly scanned the bridge.  The DRADIS screen flashed to life a moment later, smiling, she sighed in relief as she saw the quickly growing fleet of ships, all peaceably heading on parallel courses to each other.  “Report?” she asked easily.  She looked over at Marel, his face still flush with fear and sweat.

     It was Parah who responded.  She turned to her first mate, noting that the calm expression from earlier had returned to his face.  “Jump complete, we are at the specified coordinates.  All boards are green, engineering reports no damage to the ship, and sick bay reports a few minor injuries only.  DRADIS shows seven ships and counting have jumped with us.”

     “Well done, everyone,” she replied.  Fully relaxed for the first time in two days, Rebecca let her shoulders drop.  She casually picked up her phone, once again toggling the ship-wide com relay.  “Attention all hands, we made it.  Thank you and good work.  Captain out.”


	15. Running the Gauntlet

_Cylon Basestar J529_

     Alexei had immediately recognized the freighter hiding behind the Colonial Battlestar as the one that had escaped him at Sagittaron earlier.   Knowing that he could not let the troublesome starship thwart him a second time, he had quickly diverted three missiles to target the freighter in place of the beleaguered warship.  To his dismay, he watched in silent shock as two of the missiles suddenly changed direction, angling out of control and away from the Colonial vessels.  Focused entirely on the last missile, he blocked every other aspect of the battle out, willing the weapon towards the irksome ship.  His lips curled into a smile as he watched the missile curve underneath the lumbering freighter.  Suddenly it shook violently, and for an instant, the ship disappeared in the glare of the explosion. 

     “Dammit!” he cursed loudly, as the ship reappeared a moment later, continuing to accelerate away from the planet.  He vowed that that ship would not escape, and with a malice that he had never felt before, he forcibly sunk his fingers into the control basin.  His mind raced through the weapons systems searching for an available launcher to override.  He effortlessly connected with a battery on the primary dorsal arm, and with a thought launched five missiles at the galling freighter.  Smiling capriciously, he thought, I will have you…

     “Two!  What are you doing” the aged model One shrieked at him. 

     Startled back into the present, Alexei focused on the group of humanoid Cylons staring at him.  “The civilian ships are attempting to escape.  With their lack of armor, they make much easier targets than the Galactica,” he answered anxiously.

     The One seemed to stop to consider this for a moment, carefully weighing each word that Alexei had spoken. “Fine, target the civilian ships when they are in range, but destroying the Galactica takes priority.  The human fleet cannot survive if they don’t have their precious Battlestar to cower behind.”

     “Agreed,” a Model Four answered quickly.  He paused to turn his full attention towards Alexei, “Tell me Two; is there a reason why you have tasked eight missiles to this one freighter?”

     Alexei took a slow breath before answering, “This ship escaped me earlier at Sagittaron, and I wanted to make sure that it doesn’t get away again.” 

     The Four stoically watched Alexei for a few moments, his arms crossed across his chest, but his expression had changed just enough to show his disdain for Alexei’s rationing.  Finally he uncrossed his arms and casually spun back to his station, and the battle before them.

     Alexei didn’t care much for the Four’s in general, they were too analytical and overly cerebral.  Worse, they showed little devotion to the one true god, and in his opinion, they were not true believers.  He quietly returned his hands into the control basin in order to check on the progress of the missiles.  Only two of the five had survived Galactica’s impressive flack wall, and they were quickly closing the gap to his freighter.  The first missile exploded in a brilliant explosion, well short of its target.  No doubt the victim of one of the Galactica’s many guns.   The last missile continued on, dangerous fire from the Battlestar just missing as it sped by.  He waited anxiously as the missile crossed the final few kilometers to the freighter.  He clenched his teeth in anticipation, and then bowed his head as the missile turned off course at the last second, shooting harmlessly into the planet’s atmosphere.  Alexei removed his hands from the basin.  Shaking his head in disappointment he began to walk towards the Four on the other side of the chamber.  He stood behind the tall Cylon, silently waiting to be acknowledged.

     The Four turned to face him, an impatient and dismissive expression showing on his face. “Yes?” he asked.

     With frustration seemingly dripping from his pores, Alexei forcibly regained his composure.  “Why are our missiles’ having so much difficulty getting through their defenses?” he asked tensely.

     In the Four’s opinion, this Two was acting irrationally, and judging by the reaction of the other models, he was not alone in his opinion.  The other models were watching the interplay between he and the Two, and he paused before answering, giving them time to give him their full attention.   “Clearly, the Colonials have circumvented the computer virus which was hidden in the Command Navigation Program.  The defensive capabilities Colonial warships are quite robust.  With these systems unimpaired our ordinance must pass through several layers of defenses including flack, targeted weapons, decoys, heavy armor, and a surprisingly effective electronic jamming capability.  This is why we, the Fours, the Sixes, and the Eights insisted on developing the CNP hack.  Without it, today’s actions may have ended very differently.”  He looked over the group, only the One and Three were not paying attention to his summary.   Instead, the two of them remained focused on the battle directing Raiders and missiles towards the enemy.  He noticed the apprehensive look on the Five in the room, an obvious sense of dread was starting to show on his brow.  “Not too worry though, the Galactica is but one ship, an obsolete relic from the first war, and she is operating with a limited air wing.  It may take a few minutes, but she cannot survive against us for long.”   He looked at the Five again, relieved to see that his brother seemed calmed by his synopsis.

     Still aggravated, Alexei stalked back to his station, stiffly sliding his hands into the control basin again.  He let go of his consciousness, becoming one with the Basestar, he rejoined his brothers and sisters as they prosecuted the battle.  Yes, the battle was harder than expected, but the Battlestar was taking damage, it was losing.  Victory would be coming, soon.

     An alarm caught his attention.  Before he could react, a searing pain seemed to rip through his consciousness.  He found himself lying on the floor a moment later, his head throbbed and he winced in pain as he drew his legs up underneath him.  A moment later the lighting returned, looking around he saw his brothers and sisters slowly recovering, and on the ceiling a large gash appeared between two grey panels.

     “What the hell was that?” the One, now standing angrily demanded. 

     Alexei stood up, and slightly woozy, slowly returned to his station.        

     The Four, already connected to the ship, answered, “A direct hit, most likely an armor piercing round.  We have sustained moderate damage to sections 1A-17D of the central column.  Repairs are underway, I suggest we rotate the ship to protect the affected sections,” he reported dryly.

     “Agreed, turn the ship.  Now, I think we have had enough discussion, focus on the battle,” the One barked impatiently, glaring first at the Two and then at the Four.  “We have a Battlestar to kill,” he finished smugly.

     United in purpose the Cylons returned their attention to the battle taking place in front of them, all except for Alexei, who carefully focused on the freighter that he coveted.  With grim awareness that the ship would escape, he watched it travel faster and faster from the planet.  Any second he knew, and then, in a fantastic blossom of energy and light the freighter disappeared in the wake of the exergonic reaction that marked a successful Faster-Than-Light jump.  Sighing quietly, he dropped his head in disappointment, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he promised to himself.

       

_Viper 2563_

    “J.J., Break Now!” blasted through her headset.

     Reacting instantly, Lt. Julie Johnson, spun her Mark II Viper hard to starboard in a desperate attempt to evade one of the three Cylon Raiders on her tail.

     “Got him!” her wingman called triumphantly.

     “Thanks Terra, nice shooting,” she responded breathlessly.  Without missing a beat, she twisted her Viper in a complicated loop, turning her plane to meet the remaining Raiders.  She pressed her foot on the thruster plate and felt her fighter leap forward; quickly overcoming her target from behind.  J.J. squeezed the trigger tightly as she came in range, singing in glee as she watched the enemy ship disintegrate in front of her.  Pulling her stick slightly, he effortlessly soared above the remains of the Raider, catching her breath as she cleared the fray.

     “That’s two you owe me, J.J.” the raspy Aerolonian voice of her wingman called out mockingly.

     “You forget about the tin-can I blasted off your tail in the first battle?” she called back.  Out of immediate danger, the pair of Vipers flew side by side for the moment. 

     “No.  This is the third one that I’ve clipped off your back.”

     “Bull-Shit, Terra!”  J.J. nudged her plane’s stick, so that she was now just a meter off Terra’s port wing.  She looked directly at the brash pilot, meeting Terra’s brown eyes with her own, “Girl, I had that second Raider dead to rights.”

     An alarm sounded in her helmet calling her attention to the DRADIS screen.  Blinking on and off, a scarlet red circle was racing towards the Galactica; in the top corner of the screen a red exclamation mark flashed threateningly.  J.J.’s breath caught in her throat and she felt a chill freeze her core as she read the notice.

     Duck was already shouting through her helmet, “Terra, J.J.  Cylon Nuke inbound, take it out!”

     “We got it, Duck” she heard Terra call out confidently. 

     J.J. pushed her stick down and to the left, her plane heeling on its axis to meet the new threat.  Her thruster plate to the floor, she strained against the G-forces as her Viper pulled thru the tight arc.  As J.J. came out of the turn, she found the Cylon missile bearing down on her at an impossibly high speed.  She pulled the trigger on her cannons, cursing as her first shots tracked behind the target.  She adjusted her aim slightly and squeezed the trigger again, watching in horror as a few lucky shots ricocheted off of the warhead.  She realized they were too late, the missile was too fast and it was armored.  Setting her jaw in determination, she toggled her microphone for the last time, “Take care of the boys, Terra.  Love you!” she cried out.   Lt. Julie Johnson, devoted follower of the goddess of the hunt, Artemis, pressed the silver pendant she wore around her neck thru the thick flight suit as she turned her Viper towards the missile.  She offered a quick prayer to her matron god just before stomping down on the thruster.  She choked back her fears and regrets as she steered her plane into the path of the missile, there was no time for that she thought.  There wasn’t even time for pain as she and her plane were consumed in a brilliant explosion three hundredths of a second later.

     Sarah Carpenter, call sign Terra, let her foot off the thruster pedal in shock as she watched her friend blossom into a fiery supernova.  “Julie, no!” she screamed in disbelief, tears streaming down her face.  “I’m gonna kill every one of you mother-frackers!” she growled in fury.

 

_Viper 6057_          

     Derek cringed as he watched the Viper pilot’s signal disappear in the flash of the nuclear detonation.  The civilian ships had begun jumping out minutes earlier, but still the Cylons kept pressing the Colonial fliers, slowly whittling their numbers down.  He had lost three pilots in the last few minutes alone; the loss of J.J. had made four.  Now he just hoped that they could hold out long enough for the jump.

     Galactica’s com officer called out as if on cue, “Galactica to all Vipers, break off, come on home. Repeat!  Come on home!”

     Derek checked his DRADIS, noting yet another new wave of Raiders heading towards them from the closing Basestars.  “Green-Bean - Primus Squadron, Ace, Duck, and Cat-Bird, we’re going to hang back and cover the rest of the squadron’s rear.  Everyone else get your get your asses back to the Galactica!”  Derek watched his pilots turn their planes before he pushed his Viper out towards the Cylon Basestars ahead of them.  When he was behind his squadron he turned his plane in a sweeping arc to cover the perimeter. 

     His headset sputtered to life, “This is Duck, two Raiders in sector 4; I have good tone, Fox 3, Fox 4.”

     Derek turned his attention to the DRADIS screen, carefully watching the missiles chase down his colleague’s prey.

     Duck’s voice returned a moment later, “Splash two Raiders,” he confirmed without emotion.

     The four Vipers from his squadron swept back and forth across the sky tracing an imaginary shield between the beleaguered Battlestar and the oncoming Basestars.  Nearing the end of his third pass, he turned his plane inward and began to carve a new line.  With each pass inside the previous track, the umbrella shrank as the covering Vipers flew closer and closer to their base.

     “Ace – Green-Bean; I have a bandit, CBDR at sector 14, turning to intercept.”

     Derek looked at his DRADIS, scanning the display for the Raider that his wing-man was targeting.  He found it a moment later, just entering the far corner of their defense perimeter.  “Ace!  Let him go, he’s too far out!” Derek ordered quickly.

     Ace had already turned his Viper, his plane was at full burn rocketing away to meet the incoming threat.  “He’s not that far off, I can get him.”

     “Ace, break off your attack now!  That’s an order!” Derek barked into his microphone.

     “Yes, sir,” his pilot responded, clearly disappointed.

     Derek sighed loudly in frustration; he pulled his Viper in a wide loop bringing him in a position to cover his anxious wing-man.  “Ace, that Raider was trying to draw you out.  Had you engaged, you would have been jumped by his friends, and that would have opened a gap in our screen.”  Derek returned his attention to the sky outside his plane.  Looking back towards the Galactica he could see the first of his Vipers were already beginning their landing sequence.  Derek focused his DRADIS on the Galactica, confirming that most of the planes would be beginning their approach momentarily.  “Alright guys, we’re done here,” he began.  “Time to get our birds on the deck.”

     Derek lifted his foot from the thruster plate, relaxing as the force from his three engines ceased.  The sky in front of him was dark and peaceful, but he knew it was an illusion, in reality; dozens of unseen Raiders, with murder on their minds were tearing thru space just in front of him.  He confirmed that his squadron mates had made their turn back to the Galactica before flipping his plane down and to the right.  With his nose now pointed back to the Galactica he fired the three massive engines behind him, propelling him towards his base.       

     He was two thirds of the way back to the Galactica when his headset sounded.  “All Vipers, this is the CAG!  Return home at once! Starbuck, that means you too!” Apollo called out.

     Starbuck answered immediately, “Frack that, I’m coming after you!”

     Derek immediately fired his reverse thrusters; bringing his plane to a stop and flipping it end over end as he did so.  Now pointed in the direction of the distressed pilots, he began slowly moving his Viper towards them, staring at the screen intently as he watched Starbuck pick-off a missile and then a Raider which had targeted Apollo’s crippled plane.

     “Ace – Green-Bean!  Where are you going?” his wing-man called through his speakers.

     Derek watched as Ace’s plane began to turn from the Galactica and towards him.  “Green-Bean to Ace, head back to the Galactica.”  He looked at the screen again before adding softly, “I have a promise to keep.” 

     “Yes sir.  Hope you know what you’re doing,” Ace responded a moment later, doubt evident in his voice. 

     Derek brought his plane to a complete stop as he watched Starbuck buzzing around Apollo, picking off any Raider that dared to get too close.   He was about to join the attack when the com system sounded.

     Commander Adama’s gravelly voice emerged through the speakers, “Good morning, Starbuck.  What do you hear?” he asked quietly.

     “Nothing but the rain, sir!” she answered back as debris from a destroyed Raider pinged off of her Viper.

     “Then grab your gun and bring the cat in,” he directed her.

     “Aye-aye, sir!” she responded instantly. 

     Confused by the nebulous statement, Derek watched as Starbuck somersaulted her Viper over Apollo’s plane and quickly brought it to a stop 100 meters directly in front of him.  Suddenly, Starbuck’s Viper launched itself directly into Apollo’s fighter.

     “You are beyond insane!” Lee screamed as her Viper slammed headfirst into his. 

     Derek watched mortified as the two Vipers, locked together, began wildly careening towards the Galactica.  So focused on the bizarre flight of the two fighters; Derek almost missed the two Cylon Raiders approaching the damaged Vipers from behind.

     “Oh, no you don’t, you bastards,” he growled at the display.  Hidden by the stealth features of his Viper, Derek gently pressed his thruster plate, his plane smoothly gliding into a covering position below the Cylon Raiders.  He waited for the last possible second before actively targeting the enemy planes; the Raiders juked randomly as they detected his DRADIS focus.  He smiled maliciously as the DRADIS maintained the lock on the craft, “I have tone, Fox 5, Fox 6.”  The Raiders were right on top him as he squeezed the firing trigger.  Two missiles shot out from underneath his plane, curling upwards before immediately erupting into two brilliant fireballs, destroying the attacking craft.    Derek drew a satisfied breath as felt the shockwave from the explosions rock his Viper.  A warning tone sounded in his headset, concerned, he began cycling through the diagnostic readings displayed on the center screen.  In retrospect, those Raiders had been too close to for a missile shot, he reasoned.  He’d caught some of their debris because of his carelessness; debris which had smashed his IFF transponder into a useless slag of metal and plastic.  Still it could have been worse, his plane could still fly.  Scanning his DRADIS he saw that Apollo and Starbuck had passed him and were continuing to recklessly hurdle towards the Galactica.  I need to get on the deck before they crash, he told himself.  He checked his DRADIS for the enemy one last time, noting that there was only one Raider approaching them, but he didn’t have time to engage it.  He spun his Viper back towards the Galactica and depressed the thrusters, looping his plane around Apollo and Starbuck.  Now in front of the two damaged fighters, he steered his Viper towards Galactica’s port flight pod and set his plane in the proper glide path for what was sure to be a harrowing landing.

 

_Battlestar Galactica -_ _Port Flight Pod Turret 5_

John had never felt as tired as he did now.  His eyes burned, his head pounded, his ears rang, his fingers were cramped, and his back ached, every part of his body begged for relief, but he couldn’t stop.  The enemy was still coming.  An alarm sounded through his headset; quickly refocusing, he scanned the DRADIS screen while simultaneously tracking his gun towards the incoming target.  It was a missile, and it was already close.  He squeezed the trigger and held it tight, laying down a thick line of fire at the small target.  “Frack!” he cursed as he watched his tracers sail high and behind the warhead.  A moment later he felt the ship shake as the missile impacted on the side of the main hull.  He didn’t know how many enemy fighter and missiles he had shot down, but he did know how many he missed, and this last missile made eight. 

     He cursed as the alarm sounded again, looking down he saw a Raider approaching the ship from behind him.  Manhandling the controls, John quickly aimed in on the approaching target, his gun spinning up and to the left at a dizzying speed.  He gritted his teeth as he lined the Raider up for a killing shot, his finger tensing.  Suddenly, the ship shuddered violently, slowly at first; he began to be pulled to the right.  

     “What the frack was that?!” he yelled out in surprise.  John caught his breath, but was still unnerved as he felt the continuing pull. 

     “Pancake – Bingo, were okay.  That’s the flight pods retracting.  Get ready for the jump!” his C.O. called out quickly.

     Still recovering, John searched his DRADIS for the Raider that he had been about to fire upon.  He found three targets instead; he aimed in on the middle target first, it was coming in fast and nearly out of control.  He took his time as he zeroed in on the unwieldy attacker, allowing himself to adjust as the flight pod continued its slide to the right.  He noticed that this fighter was bigger than any of the Raiders that he had engaged previously, curious, he took a second to scan the target again.  Too his surprise, the target flashed white and was identified as two Vipers that appeared to be stuck together.  Shaking his head in confusion, he switched his attention to the closest target; its DRADIS return was so small that he almost lost it in the few seconds he spent studying the two Vipers moments earlier.  It was coming straight in towards the flight pod, he quickly checked for a transponder I.D., not seeing one, he tightened his fingers around the firing control before taking a steadying breath.  His alarm sounded again breaking his attention, suddenly; the track on the third fighter had changed.  The DRADIS icon had switched to the red coloration for an enemy combatant, next to it a red exclamation point blinked ominously.         

     “Radiological Alarm, Raider sector 6!” erupted through his headset.  “All Gunners, take that Raider out!” Bingo yelled fearfully.

     Acting on instinct, Pancake spun the gun up and to the right, his fingers clenching the trigger tightly as he bore down on it.  He caught his breath as the gun came to a stop; he surveyed the empty void in front of him, his eyes just catching the last remnants of the Raider’s fiery explosion which had already been snuffed out. 

     “Splash priority Raider,” Bingo called out, “Well done, Pancake.”

     Seeing that his DRADIS was clear for the moment, John hung his head in exhaustion and took a deep self-assuring breath.  He sat there a few moments, his hands lying limply in his lap.  “Frack,” he quietly breathed out, emotionally and physically spent.

 

_Viper 6057 – Approaching Port Flight Pod._

     Derek kept a steady eye on the navigational markers as his Viper sped towards the Galactica’s port flight pod.  His heart practically beating through his chest, Derek slowed his breathing in an attempt to calm his already frayed nerves.  This would be his first live combat landing.  The Admiralty considered them too dangerous and had restricted training to simulators only. 

     “Oh shit,” Derek croaked, as he watched the port flight pod methodically retract in front of him.  Knowing that he had to land his Viper before the pod closed on him, he pushed on the throttle plate and his plane quickly accelerated well above the safe approach speed for a normal landing.  He adjusted the yaw slightly on his Viper as he approached the slowly contracting landing bay.  He fixed his eyes on the landing signals, frantically adjusting the pitch as he barreled towards the landing strip.  One last check of his instruments and he was on top of the strobing deck markers, his mind screaming, ‘Too fast, too fast!’  In the blink of an eye, he crossed the threshold into the landing pod, his body shooting forward as he fired the reverse thrusters in a panicked attempt to slow his plane down.  Below him, Vipers were strewn about the deck randomly; several were lying on their sides.  He passed above them, searching for a clear space to land.  “There!” he yelled finding a relatively open area.  He wrestled his plane towards the landing spot, nearly losing control as he violently rolled to the left, the nose diving down towards the deck.  At the last second, his ventral thrusters fired, mostly righting his plane.  Derek’s Viper slammed to the deck hard and he grunted loudly as his head bounced off the roof of his canopy.  He sat motionless as he caught his breath.  He began to shut down the various systems on his Viper.   He was distracted; Starbuck and Apollo hadn’t yet landed, and he was beginning to worry that they wouldn’t make it.  He glanced back warily, quickly scanning the rapidly closing opening for the two pilots he had been trying to protect.  With no sign of them, he rechecked his instruments, ensuring that his plane was powered down.  Finally complete, he toggled his com system one last time, “Viper 6057 to Control, skids down, mag-locks secure,” he called out wearily. 

     “Control to all pilots, inbound Vipers, brace for impact!  Brace for impact!” 

Derek turned his head as far back as he could, straining to find the wayward planes.  They appeared behind him, he watched petrified as the rampant Vipers, conjoined by the powerful on board electromagnets, screamed by just above them.   He knew immediately that they were going too fast, and if they didn’t slow down they would crash into the now closed forward end of the flight pod.  Suddenly, their dorsal thrusters firing, the Vipers slammed down to the deck as if pushed from above.  His heart in his throat, Derek watched, as the two Vipers, seemingly glued together, slid wildly along the length of the landing strip before finally coming to an abrupt stop as they crashed into the thick bulkhead which sealed the flight pod from space.   

     “This is Starbuck, were down!” she yelled in both relief and excitement.

     Derek closed his eyes in relief and relaxed into his shoulder harness, he swallowed a small amount of blood and saliva.  He sat there for a moment, before reaching for the picture of his family mounted on the console in front of him.  Holding it in front of him, he began to weep, “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”  He bowed his head down, his helmet pressing onto the picture. 

 

 


	16. Fair Winds and Following Seas

_Prolmar Sector – Uncharted Space_

        The Galactica emerged from her jump moments later; a few small fires could be seen along her hull.  Her tough hide was pock marked with great blackened patches and ragged holes where her armor had been torn away.  Flying above the fleet, she silently watched over her charges, protecting them from all threats as they made their way slowly through uncharted space.  Within a few minutes damage control teams began to emerge all over the Galactica’s battered skin.  Donned in bright orange exposure suits, the crew members swarmed across their home like scorned ants, aggressively confronting the damage to the ship with torches and welders. 

_Battlestar Galactica – Combat Information Center_

        The first thing the Commander noticed when they emerged from the jump was the stillness on the bridge.  It stood in stark contrast to the violent shaking and screeching of alarms that had dominated the compartment during the battle.  Commander Adama ignored the smell of ozone which permeated the C.I.C., and instead enjoyed the silence as he waited quietly for the ship’s powerful sensors to become active, knowing that at the very least, they had escaped the Cylons. 

        A soft beep sounded from above snaring the Commander’s attention.  A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he studied the navigation display first and the Cylon-free DRADIS screen second.  He held his eyes closed and breathed out slowly, luxuriating in the peace that he felt for the first time in days.  He opened his eyes and turned his attention to Colonel Tigh next to him.  “Colonel Tigh, what is our status?”    

        Tigh concentrated as he pulled up the relevant information on the table in front of them, “Navigation confirms we have arrived in the Prolmar sector, DRADIS confirms that all 63 civilian ships have arrived and are proceeding on a matching course.  Damage Control teams have been dispatched and have begun repairs.”   

        The Commander tilted his head, studying the overhead screens as the Colonel continued his report, the steady cadence of his monotone voice rolling over him like a wave.  There was damage to be sure, it would take weeks to repair the ship, and longer than that to recover from the losses that they had all had suffered at their home worlds.  But against all odds, they had survived, and now they had a chance to continue to survive. 

        “Thank you, Colonel,” he said quietly to his longtime executive.  He savored one last moment of peace, before deliberately reaching for the com relay attached to the side of the table.  He looked at the handset for a moment before slowly depressing the transmit button.  “This is the Commander.  We have escaped the Cylons and have successfully jumped to the Prolmar Sector along with the civilian ships.  Good work.  That is all.”

        A loud cheer emerged from the crew in the C.I.C. and he smiled brightly as he watched his crew bask in the warm feeling of victory.  He waited quietly just a moment, studying the dark-skinned communication specialist as she wiped tears from her face. 

        Noticing his gaze upon her, Specialist Dualla, slowly looked up at the Commander and deliberately brought herself to attention.  The Commander had been dreading the Galactica’s decommissioning and his retirement, as a result he had been uncharacteristically moody and on edge for weeks.  Now she could see that the tension which had been pulling on his face had lifted, he seemed rejuvenated, or at least with purpose.

        “Dee, please open a secure channel with Colonial One,” he requested easily.

        “Yes, sir,” she responded immediately.  With a smile, she quickly turned to her station and began to hail the President’ ship.

 

_Freighter Bill Thurston - 12.  Captain’s quarters_

        Rebecca sat heavily on the thin mattress of her bunk, the cushion compressing firmly against the metal frame on which it sat.  She immediately sprang back to her feet and quickly crossed the small distance to her desk on the other side of her cabin.  Reaching in, she grabbed the tall bottle that was half filled with the clear amber liquid.  She held the bottle above her head, studying it through the light.  With her hands shaking slightly, she carefully set the bottle on the desk, and slowly returned to her bunk.  She sat there quietly, staring at the bottle without seeing it, forcing her mind to stay blank.  She was numb and she wanted to stay numb, not feeling, not caring, and not thinking. 

        Three soft knocks at her hatch caught her attention; she stared at the door, refusing to move.  A few moments passed, and she absently watched the latch spin counter-clockwise, the hatch swung open slightly, and the petite form of Nurse Harris entered quietly.

        Spera stopped just inside of the hatch and immediately noticed the bottle of Ambrosia sitting on the desk.  “I wanted to check on you,” she said quietly.  She sat on the mattress next to her Captain and turned to face her, she fixed her gaze on Rebecca, her soft eyes offering both compassion and support.  The two sat in silence for a few minutes.  Spera deftly stood up and stepped across the cabin.  She picked up the bottle and turned to Rebecca, a smile just pulling at the corners of her mouth.  “How long has it been?” she asked, rocking the bottle back and forth gently.

        “Five years,” she answered quietly.

        “Well, I think this one time will be okay.”

        Rebecca turned to her with a look of surprise on her face, “You didn’t know me when I drank.”  Rebecca dropped her head; it hung for a few seconds before she brought it back up.  She looked back at her friend with a slight spark in her eye and the beginning of a smile on her face.   In a light tone, she sarcastically added, “Believe it or not, I was a real bitch back then.”

        Spera laughed at that while she selected two small glasses.  She filled the two glasses half-way and sat them down on the shelf across from the pillow.  “Why don’t we pray first, you’re a follower of Zeus?” she asked.

        “Yes, it’s been a few days since I have prayed.”  Rebecca got up from her bed and knelt in front of the dresser built into the side of the frame.  She opened the top drawer, and carefully removed a small white wooden box.  She set the box on her small desk in the corner of her cabin, and gently opened it.  Centered on the lace doily she placed a small crystal candle holder between an ivory idol and an intricately decorated copper incense burner.  She whispered a short incantation before quickly lighting the crimson candle first and the incense burner second.  She looked over at Spera, and together they knelt in front of the make shift altar.  Rebecca took Spera’s hand in hers as the burner filled the room with the fragrant smoke.  With a subtle nod, Rebecca began reciting lines from the sacred scrolls, Spera joining her moments later. 

        The two remained kneeling in front of the alter in silence; the incense had burned out minutes earlier.  As if reacting to a silent cue, Rebecca firmly squeezed Spera’s hand before letting go, and gingerly stood up before extinguishing the delicately burning candle. 

        Spera stood up a moment later and turned to Rebecca; the two stood facing each other, the emotions of the day playing across their faces.  She turned towards the shelf and carefully picked up one of the tumblers and handed it to Rebecca. She reached back and picked up the second one and turned back to her friend.  She held it up slightly and nodded to Rebecca.  

        Rebecca, closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself, she raised her glass to match Spera’s and solemnly toasted, “To our family, our friend’s, and our homes.”  She held the glass a moment before bringing it to her lips and with a sigh of resignation, she tilted her head back and swallowed the contents of the glass in one loud gulp.  She squeezed her eyes closed and coughed violently as the liquid scorched the back of her throat. 

        “Gimme that,” Spera chided her friend, taking the tumbler from Rebecca.  She quickly refilled both glasses and handed one back to Rebecca.  She held the tumbler in front of her, “To the future, the undiscovered country which lies before us.”

        The ambrosia in the bottled was shared shot by shot between the two of them, and for the next several hours the two friends mourned, sharing memories of loved ones, good times and bad, and their fears for the future.  Hours later, the two friends slept heavily, the bottle lying empty on the table.

_Cylon Heavy Raider – D769RG3_

        Alexei waited anxiously in the passenger compartment as the Heavy Raider violently shook and bounced as it made its transit through Ragnar’s dangerous storms back to the Basestar above.  The trip to the station had been revealing and troubling.  The Cylons had spent hours on the station, they had searched every compartment, every closet, they had even removed some of the wall panels in the causeways.  But they had found nothing, every storage area had been cleared, Tylium stores emptied, the armories had been scoured, the Colonials had even cleaned out the maintenance lockers.  Alexei’s eyes settled on the boxed computers which were stored in the rear of the craft.  These computers, plus the ones filling the trailing three Heavy Raiders would be examined line by line for information.  But he knew it was pointless, as thorough as the Colonials had been with the supplies, Alexei knew without a doubt that the hard drives on the computers had been wiped clean. 

        A sudden wave from the storm tossed the Heavy Raider as if it were a toy.  Alexei grimaced as the thick straps dug into his shoulders, awkwardly trussing him to the narrow bench along the side of the craft.  Moments later the Heavy Raider recovered, and with a frustrated sigh he angrily shoved himself into the rigid backrest.  He silently cursed the station they had just left, and the Colonials who had built it in the first place.  The concept of establishing a sanctuary base in the hellish nightmare of this planet was more than sheer folly, it was insanity itself.  This base’s existence showed with grim reality the determination and tenacity that the Colonials possessed.  During the first war, the Colonials had been repeatedly beaten back to the edge of extermination.  But every time as his Cylon ancestors closed on their goal of eradication, the Colonials would regroup, fight back, and eventually fight the war to a stalemate.  The fact that this base existed, the supplies within now safely tucked away for future use, and the Cylons experience with their enemies, led to one conclusion.  The humans would not be easily exterminated; they would not go quietly into the night.  Alexei was sobered, if not slightly depressed, by the realization that his kind had started what was sure to be a bloody and protracted war.  A war, which history suggested would likely be without end and unwinnable.

        A strained cough caught his attention, the Number Five they had found abandoned on the station sat across from him.  Wrapped in a thick blanket, he sat on the bench heavily, his eyes blankly staring at the ceiling above.  He was sweating profusely and shivering in misery, the radiation from the planet had greatly affected him.  Alexei studied the dying agent with concern.  It was not concern for the Five or even pity for the pain the man was suffering through; his concern was far more selfish.  Uncomfortable questions flew through Alexei’s nervous mind, ‘How had the Colonial’s discovered that the Five was a Cylon Agent?  Why had they left him on the station?  Why hadn’t they executed him upon his discovery?’  But the question that bothered him most, ‘If they discovered that the Five was a Cylon Agent, what was to stop the Colonials from discovering other Cylon Models?’  More personally, he considered the other Two’s within the Colonial fleet.  ‘What would happen to those models if they were discovered?  And what would happen to him, if he were ever captured?’  He took a long look at the Five, shuddering at the thought of a possible fate that he refused to imagine.  For the first time, Alexei questioned the wisdom of prosecuting this war and disturbing the uneasy peace which had lasted forty years. 

        A sharp and gurgling gasp broke his depressing reverie.  Turning towards the sound, Alexei and the other Cylons silently watched as the Five, clutching his throat, awkwardly stood up.  He turned his head towards the others, his eyes were squeezed closed in anguish, and his face was twisted into a painful grimace that nearly matched the ghastly wheezing that slipped through his pressed lips.  Suddenly, his face relaxed, a moment later he crumbled onto the deck, his head bouncing sharply off the solid flooring.   Dumbfounded, Alexei sat there staring at his brother, who was lying awkwardly on the floor, a small puddle of blood was slowly growing below his broken nose. 

        After a moment, a Four tentatively approached the body.  He knelt next to the Five and softly pressed his thumb and forefinger to the Cylon’s throat, quietly checking for any sign of life.  Finding none, the large Cylon bent his head down in remorse.  He looked up at the others, and slowly shook his head, silently confirming the passing of their brother.  The Four returned his attention to his fallen Cylon brother a moment later.  With an unexpected delicacy, he gently rolled the body on its back before carefully straightening the legs and deliberately crossing the arms across its chest.  Lastly, the Four removed his jacket and softly spread it across the body.

        The Cylons watched the Four slowly stand up and return to his seat.  Alexei was numb, he stared blankly at the others in the cabin with him, they returned his gaze, equally silent and unseeing.  Slowly, he began to regain his composure, it was a Six who caught his attention first.  Her head was turned to the side and her chin was buried in her outstretched hand.  But beneath the platinum blonde locks of her carefully styled hair, hot tears slowly trailed down her exquisite cheeks.  The cabal of Cylons sat in silence for several minutes, each adjusting to the new realities of war.

        Alexei looked over at the Centurions standing in the back, calmly waiting, blissfully apathetic to the dangers and trials posed by this grand crusade.  Right now, he envied their sense of purpose.

 

_Battlestar Galactica - Pilot Quarters_

        Cursing under his breath, Derek rolled on his back, staring into the blackness of his bunk.  Sleep would not come tonight, he was too wound up after the events of the last several days.  Fighting the urge to roll over again, he took a slow calming breath and closed his eyes while trying to quiet his brain.  It was no use; he sat up and gently slid the curtain to his bunk open.  Finding the footholds, he climbed down being careful not to disturb Sarah who was sleeping below him.  He paused and shook his head in disgust as he looked at J.J.’s empty bunk on the floor.  Padding gently to his locker, he silently opened it and reached in for his backpack which held a tablet and headphones.  As he pulled them out, a slight reflection caught his attention.  He stood stock still, staring at the shadow in the darkness.  The temperature in the compartment seemed to drop rapidly, and he shivered as he was suddenly overcome by the imagined chill.  He started to reach for the object, and then quickly pulled his hand back, as if his fingers had been snapped.  He continued to stare at the shadow, and slowly, his right hand began to reach forward again.  His eyes were closed when his fingers closed around the thick polymer handle.  With his left hand holding the leather belt fast, he flicked his right wrist, forcefully sliding the bulky weapon out of the holster.  He looked at the gun in the darkness; it seemed to feel heavier than he remembered, before carefully placing it into the backpack.  Steeling himself, he headed through the hatch, not certain where his late-night journey would ultimately take him.

        He wandered aimlessly through the corridors, they were mostly empty this time of night, even the overhead lights were dimmed.  He walked numbly through the narrow passageways, his monotonous footfalls had a calming influence on his earlier frenetic mind.  Derek didn’t keep track of where or for how long he traveled through the sleeping vessel, he wasn’t even completely aware that he had finally come to a stop.  Seemingly at peace, he surveyed the five corridors that came together at this junction.  He recognized the corridor to the left, some of the pilots had been talking about an ad hoc memorial that was being set up further down the passageway.  He turned and began heading towards it, morbid curiosity drawing him further in. 

 

_Battlestar Galactica – Memorial Causeway_

        Derek looked over the dimly lit compartment; the few overhead lights had been softened by a covering sheer yellow material.  Burning candles were placed haphazardly throughout the space.  Their soft twinkling combined with the muted and competing scents from the various incense burners gave a heavy and somber feel to the space.  The corridor came to an end in front of him; a standard hatch was centered on the far wall.  The rest of this wall, as well as the two adjoining ones were covered in pictures.  Pictures of families, friends, lovers, and colleagues, there were hundreds.  They covered every inch of the wall, the edge of each picture covering the picture below it, or the left or the right.  Derek stopped in the center of the frame, slowly spinning, taking in the pictures, the twinkling candles, the incense, the notes declaring undying love, pleading for forgiveness, or for help from the gods.  It was overwhelming.  Derek staggered towards the wall, collapsing heavily on the deck.   He slipped off his backpack and fumbled with the zipper, clumsily opening the bag.

        His hands plunged inside, unseeing fingers roughly pushing past the tablet computer and the handgun.  His hands slid into the document pocket and he firmly grasped the manila folder stored there.  In a rush, he pulled the folder out of the bag.  He spread it open on his lap with one hand; his other desperately grabbing the picture within.  He threw the empty folder to the side and squeezed the picture tightly with both hands.  Tears streaming down his face, he rocked violently back and forth several times before dropping the picture to the deck in front of him. He curled his head into his elbow and he screamed.  Out of breath, he inhaled deeply, groaning like a wounded animal, before screaming into his arm again, not caring who heard his pain.  He alternated between screaming and breathing several more times until finally his throat was too ragged to continue.  He sat on the floor, his nose inches from the picture and sobbed loudly.  With a sudden flurry of motion, he smashed the picture to his face, the photograph creasing over his nose.  His breathing slowed as his lungs struggled to pull air through the thick glossy paper; the musty scent from the photo grew heavy and damp from his salty tears, spittle and the mucus running freely from his nose.  Gasping for breath, he pulled his head up and coughed roughly.  Not having a handkerchief, he wiped his face and blew his nose loudly into his sleeve.  He steadied himself for a moment before carefully flattening the now ruined picture on the deck between his legs.  He looked at it intensely, his lips curling back and pressing against his teeth, his hands shook rapidly as the muscles in his arms twitched in frustration.  A final labored shudder accompanied a high-pitched choking sound which escaped his clenched jaws as his breathing finally returned to a more normal rate.  He gently wiped his tears away with his hand, his head bowed down; he continued to stare at the picture.  Slowly, without looking his right hand reached out, his fingers deliberately closing around a shoulder strap on his pack.  He slid the pack along the floor towards him until it pressed against his side.  His fingers released the strap before tentatively making their way into the bag.  He lifted the gun slightly and carefully placed it in his lap.  He studied the gun intently, his fingers deftly releasing the safety before chambering the round. 

        “I miss you,” he breathed quietly.

        He lifted the gun and turned it towards him, his eyes unflinching as he stared down the barrel.  He brought the pistol forward, his mouth opening sub-consciously.  The metal barrel was cold on his lips, and he nearly gagged as it pressed his tongue uncomfortably to the floor of his mouth.  His thumb pulled back, cocking the weapon, and his index finger tensed slightly on the trigger.  Basic training took over, his breathing slowed and his hand steadied as he readied himself to take the shot.  One final breath, he closed his eyes and pictured his newborn daughter in his arms, twelve years earlier.  He squeezed his eyes tighter, and the image changed to his wife, smiling brightly on their wedding day.  She was so beautiful, so full of life and hope.

        “No!” he howled as threw the gun across the chamber.  It crashed loudly into the far wall, ricocheting wildly across the room, finally coming to a stop in a dark corner. 

        He sat on the deck, absolutely still, his heart pounding through his chest.  He slowly dragged himself off the floor and determinedly walked across the compartment.  His pistol had come to rest at the base of a messily arranged dais to the Goddess Hera.  That was a sign, he thought.  His wife had worshipped Hera, and her faith had strengthened his bond with the gods.  He bent down and retrieved his gun; immediately locking the safety and clearing the chamber.  He laid the gun onto the floor next to him and tentatively kneeled in front of the altar.  He grabbed a small matchbox which was lying next to the altar and quickly lit a thin white candle which sat in an elegant pewter holder.  He stared at the shimmering candle for short period before bowing his head in prayer. 

        His prayers finished, Derek stood up and retrieved his bag.  He slowly walked the perimeter of the compartment as he surveyed the pictures on the bulkheads, pausing every so often to more closely look at one or to read an attached note.  He looked at the now ruined picture of his wife and child in his hand and decided that he would print out a new picture to post tomorrow.  Derek’s mind now finally settled, he returned to Hera’s altar and softly sat in front of it, placing the picture in his lap.   He reached into his backpack again, this time removing his tablet and a set of headphones.  Derek placed the headphones on and began to methodically search his music library, deliberately selecting songs which had meaning for him and his family.  His eyes closed as the music started, it washed over him, and gently soothed his tortured soul, gracefully taking him back to happier times. 

        Derek smiled as his mind returned to a tropical beach, it was seven years earlier, and he and his wife had returned with their five-year-old daughter to the palm covered island where they had spent their honey moon.  They were laughing and splashing in the warm water, he was relaxing in a scratchy hammock and over the wind he could barely hear a ukulele and singing.

 

_“Somewhere over the rainbow_

_Way up high_

_And the dreams that you dreamed of_

_Once in a lullaby”_

_Israel Kamakawiwo’ole_

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> There are a few people that I need to acknowledge and to thank for helping me develop and ultimately write this story. First, my wife Jenn. Thank you for not only providing time to both develop and work on the story, but also as a sounding board for ideas, and help with editing. Lori, thank you for suffering through my earlier draft and providing help with both grammar and story concepts. And of course, a big thank you to everyone who took the time to read my little yarn and offer encouragement and constructive criticism. This story has been my first writing project (not including reports for work) that I have worked on since high school. A very long time ago, and what seems like in a galaxy far far away. It has truly been a very fun experience.
> 
> As for this story, Ragnar was originally intended to be the prologue for a longer story which takes place during season 2. I felt that for the intended story to work, I needed to show how Derek made his way to the Galactica. I found that as I wrote the prologue, that this introductory piece took a life of its own, and eventually morphed into a complete stand-alone story.
> 
> As for my original story, I have begun outlining, and starting, stopping, re-thinking, re-outlining and finally I am am outlining it again for hopefully the last time. I am hoping to start writing it soon. Please be patient, Ragnar took me several years to piece together, and it is by far the simpler story of the two.


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